The Mine

The words. I did not use all of them. solitude, cage, moonless, identical, circle, gravity, canary, root, platitude, apparition

For Skylover’s Word List.

The Mine
“Grief is like living two lives – One is like pretending everything is alright, and the other where your heart silently screams in pain.” Anonymous

January 3.
the smell of petrichor rises
from the roots and
moist air circles me
in the moonless night.
solitude cages me.
an owl drifts across the sky
like an apparition.
I look up from the depths of a mine,
a caged canary beating my wings
against death.

Haibun: The Watch

Haibun: The Watch
“Those we love never truly leave us, Harry. There are things that death cannot touch.” – Jack Thorne, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child: Parts One and Two

An early leaf burning: smoke wanders and its incense drifts to heaven. The voices of cicadas are silent now in the stand of cedars on the hill. I go to the pile of stones gathered from daily walks down to the creek and back. I bring one back and place it carefully on the pile. I began years ago with the death of friend, and then the death of my mother and the three suicides of friends last July and the death of my cousin Billy last October. I also place a candle in a gallon jar, that will burn though the night. The night will be cloudy, the stars unseen. But that doesn’t mean the stars aren’t there, just hidden from view. Like the loved ones gone before. I will sit on my back porch and watch the candle through the night, keeping watch, drifting in and out of sleep, of dreams. I sit entranced in the midst of the haiku I wish I could write.
the silent cedars
on the hill bear witness
to unseen stars

 

Redbuds in the Spring – dVerse OLN

Tuesday for dVerse Poetics, Mary prompted us to write in response to someone else’s poem – in agreement, disagreement, in similar vein, especially if it is a poet who has deeply influenced us. We also in the pub comments. talked about those poets. Great way to learn about people and also, discover different writers. Walt Whitman was an early influence and his writing is still an influence. I missed the prompt but submit here for Open Link.  Whitman was the “Father” of free verse. Many people go towards Ginsberg but many times, I find his style too much of a rant. The simple form and verbiage of Whitman touches my heart and mind more. I am attempting to write this in the style of his elegant and soulful elegy, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d”, parts 1 – 4. If you have not read, I hope you will and that you will read more of his poetry – love, sexuality, patriotism, nature, nobility of spirit…here is a link to Poetry Foundation where you will find this and other Whitman poems: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/ Here is a link to Mary’s Poetics: http://dversepoets.com/2016/01/19/poetics-writing-a-poem-in-response/    Come visit us at dVerse for a great variety of poems from all around the world http://dversepoets.com/2016/01/21/open-link-night-164/

public domain image Eastern Redbud

public domain image Eastern Redbud

Redbuds in the Spring
”The art of art, the glory of expression and the sunshine of the light of letters, is simplicity.” Walt Whitman (1819-1892), U.S. poet. Leaves of Grass, preface (1855).

In March, the redbuds bloom.
Among the spring bare trees and in spring green pastures
like gaudy sunset clouds captured in the delicate branches.
Young heart shaped leaves flutter in the breeze,
softly breathing in the pink shadows.
What once I watched with joy at early spring
now I weep and will always weep
for the pain of the loss of him I loved,
now sleeping in a country yard.
And now in April the redbuds
Have wept their blooms onto the ground
And heart leaves are still.
I stand beside the simple white stone
and brush away the fallen faded blooms.
From the new spring forest comes the wistful
song of cardinals – the sweet call and silence.
From another tree, a response and silence.
and silence and one last response fades away.
The choir, sad and respectful in this quiet country place.
I stroke the green leaves and with my finger
trace a name upon the leaves.
Papa, and Papa, and yet again, Papa.

Heart Rains – tanka

free public image

free public image

Heart rains

dry hot summer ends –
soft rain taps on leaves like sad
tears falling from the
grey sky – I lift my face and
whisper your name – can you hear
me – do you know my heart rains?

Tanka are poems with line syllables of 5-7-5-7-7. There is an extra line of 7 syllables making this form Bussoku-sekika – footprint of Buddha, a rare form of poetry, an early form of waka. It is written for my friend Peggie – Huntmode on wordpress, who died this past May.  I am linking to Poetry Pantry today for the first time:  http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.se/2015/09/poetry-pantry-271.html

 

 

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