a haiku migrating west,
yet still humble.
When it was reborn as an epitaph
on a flag at half mast, revealing
sheer luminosity, I wondered which
path it would light next, so I stepped back,
gracelessly stumbled on a sonnet,
grieving, interned in headlines,
another child lost, caught in crossfire,
the volta found marks, intended targets.
I explored the city with the verse,
moved by its presence, bedraggled,
yet more alive than most men. Four stanzas
vibrated a steel drum that a student played
under a maple at Waterloo Park, fingers
orchestrating each line. Dusk crumbled
artistic hesitation, lingered upon
the hardened smiles of cemetery angels,
and not a single device could be seen as a
grizzled man wheeled his vacant-eyed wife
down a winding ramp, ever so slowly,
but romanticism settled on her thin shoulders,
stilled the lost gestures of gnarled hands.
Night came while I kept the changeling
company; learning from its curves,
trailing sidetracks, tagging reflections,
and I was torn down by its tenderness,
inconsistency, fervidity, despondency.
I kept its pace as it walked streets, posing
a prostitute with prose, a narrative
requiring translation and a careful refrain.
Odes and free verse sent rondeaus spinning,
and before dawn, in a stanglehold dream,
it continued to transgress, multiply,
ruthlessly, the shapeshifter grew
enfolding me in manifold truths.
A poet is more than a person who writes poetry. I was wrong, so wrong. A maverick who I call friend said this, and I wasn't listening. My ears were closed, chin up and out, a boxer stance hiding a black eye.
A poet is creature unlike any other... one I can only dream of becoming.
You know who you are. And you are poet.
I love you, Guro. Stand tall. Be you. Listen to spirit... it knows, luv, it knows...