Best Pines Poems
muddy, dying pond
green confronts cloudless blue sky
my dog sniffs and snoops
Whispers fill the air,
In the language of the breeze;
Spoken by the pines.
Vague traces of mystic embraces,
Soft candlelight mirrors our faces.
The sounds of the waterfall as limitless
As our heated caresses.
Whisper, another time, you love me in my ear,
Your words rising to the to windy, starlit spaces.
Come, join us in celebration,
Hearts waltzing in rhythmic palpitations.
Breathtaking you, breathtaking me.
Blessed by God~ lovers forever to be.
7/23/2021
~1-
6. Matsukaze
("Noh" is an ancient Japanese style of
drama, broadly similar to Elizabethan
tragedy. "The Wind in the Pines" is
my version of a well-known Noh play.)
Despite
the vigil I kept, night on night ...
despite
my spring purification rite ...
paper streamers like fronds of willow,
tears soaking into my pillow,
you did not come.
Madness touched me.
Like the spume of a wave
that boils and fizzes,
in my pain I raved.
Love returns like the ruthless tide,
like the air perspires in the hot night,
and leaves beads of water on morning grass
to mark its sweating.
The agonies pass,
but there's no forgetting.
Waiting at the gazing tree,
I look out on the restless sea ...
is that he? Coming to me?
Cut the succulent leaf of aloe vera,
and it weeps clear healing tears.
I am restored. Here's Yukihira.
See how his ship skips as it nears!
I deceive myself.
Am I blind?
It was the wind,
teasing a pine.
Exquisite, his calligraphy.
He painted a poem, just for me.
"Now I have gone.
Left you behind.
But if you pine,
I'll come at a run."
I am nothing now. I am a sad pine,
doubled over by prevailing winds.
Like salt, I dissolve in the brine.
Nature's madness, love, is a storm,
but it can't last. The sky grows warm
with purple streaks, braided on magenta.
I am held fast, because I have sinned.
Where I go now, none may enter.
Autumn rain will come. Mark the signs.
And listen for the wind, sighing in the pines.
In the flush of hot summertime, I took the scenic route,
Up a hill of pine trees, when all of nature was in fruit!
All along the fragrant path, I relished that winding road,
Swept away by multitudinous colors, beauty had bestowed!
The dawn had grown so lovely, with its cotton candy skies,
So like the debut of springtime, in its blushing surprise!
And I was welcomed with sweet songs, into Birdland Manor,
In the blooming golden age, of nature's youthful glamour!
3. At the Cabin
("Noh" is an ancient Japanese style of
drama, broadly similar to Elizabethan
tragedy. "The Wind in the Pines" is
my version of a well-known Noh play.)
(The Chokugan = a shinto prayer.
The priest is protecting himself from
the ghosts.)
BUDDHIST PRIEST
Do you live here?
MURASAME
Why do you ask? Who are you?
BUDDHIST PRIEST
Just a traveler, benighted on my journey to ...
MATSUKAZE
What you request is little enough.
But our cabin is sparse, unfurnished, rough.
We are ashamed. It's far too humble. See?
We cannot offer hospitality.
BUDDHIST PRIEST
I am not looking for feathers or feast.
I am a simple, unassuming priest.
A fog is gathering swiftly around:
Please don't ask me to sleep on the ground.
MURASAME:
I am sorry. You cannot stay ...
MATSUKAZE
Wait!
The fog is freezing, and the hour is late.
The moon sails out from the refuge of a cloud,
and I see the form of a man who has vowed
to abandon all license. That, I admire.
Approach, holy man, our wretched fire.
BUDDHIST PRIEST
I am grateful, ladies. Yukihira,
the much-lamented young poet,
put it thus: "If anyone
should ever ask for me,
say I'm in paradise, and I know it:
in Kobe, enfolded by green sea,
and fine women, to dote upon:
no place could possibly be dearer".
MATSUKAZE
Aieee!
BUDDHIST PRIEST
What's wrong, young woman? See,
I prayed this morning, by the tall tree,
two-trunked and handsome. Nothing bad
can come this way. You look so sad!
MATSUKAZE
You have mentioned the name of our dead lover.
BUDDHIST PRIEST
A peasant told me of two women from here,
who both loved a Kyoto nobleman.
He composed exquisite poetry,
but sickness took him, in the prime of youth.
MURASAME
Aiee!
BUDDHIST PRIEST
I think I have stumbled into the truth!
You are the girls who live in the tree!
You gave your hearts to Yukihira,
and now you're ghosts! The Chokugan!
("Noh" is an ancient Japanese style of
drama, broadly similar to Elizabethan
tragedy. "The Wind in the Pines" is
my version of a well-known Noh play.)
2. The Beach, After Dark
The coast has drowned in the gloomy night,
but the moon shines. Two women in white
come along the shore - Matsukaze,
with her sister Murasame.
They seem to float like smoke, in dresses
with long, wide sleeves, their hair in tresses.
MATSUKAZE
The sad waves lap on our feet,
then slide back. Like hope, they meet
us running, then dissipate. Once spent,
they slink off, ashamed, but can't prevent
falling down to the cold sea.
This is how it must always be.
MURASAME
When the tide relinquishes its assault on land
and drains away, it is sure to strand
small pools among the boulders, strewn
along the beach. And, all too soon,
the life in these tiny oceans, forlorn,
will fade, like you and I, before the dawn.
MATSUKAZE
The moon can't cast any light through the pine.
Our lovely sleeves, weighted down with brine,
will tire us quickly. Crabs without shells,
we are women who have no lover. Smell
the sea fog, sister! Like a clammy dress,
it clings to us, like our loneliness.
MURASAME
Salt in everything. In our hair, our skin.
It sucks out our essence, leaves us thin
and pale. Our only company, the moon ...
and she will weaken and flounder, soon
enough. She stirs the ocean, churning
chill water, exciting in us a hopeless yearning.
MATSUKAZE
I hear the fishermen out on the sea,
and I want there to be a man for me.
They call, one to another. Out there.
I smell smoke stinging the air,
but no woodsman sees my boxwood comb.
They cut fresh reeds, not for my home.
MURASAME
Look, sister! The moon's in my pail!
And in yours, too. But there it sails,
up in the sky, singular, not two.
These little moons are like me and you,
illusions that can never truly be,
two facets of one destiny.
("Noh" is an ancient Japanese style of
drama, broadly similar to Elizabethan
tragedy. "The Wind in the Pines" is
my version of a well-known Noh play.)
1. The Buddhist Priest
This was the day of the White Crane.
I was walking from Kyoto to fair Kobe,
and not omitting a single shrine,
now nearing the end of my three-day journey.
The morning had taken on a hue
of pastel. I reached a promontory, above the sea
with curious roadside ancestor tombs,
slabs of coarse stone. The wind
and waves, so restless, had done their work,
scarring and scarifying the soft chalk,
leaving strange columns, each capped
by its crude ashlar memorial tablet.
As I prayed to the dead, my bare head
was lifted. My gaze (no longer mine)
was drawn towards a tall pine,
standing alone, its trunk bifurcated.
That tree, I felt somehow, had waited
for me to come. Looking about me,
I saw a peasant, short and stoutly
built. "Tell me about the tree,"
I said. "And what's that poetry?
That hanging plaque?" He said I'd found
something special. "This is hallowed ground,"
he muttered. "Matsukaze and her sister
Murasame mourned here, Mister.
Then Heaven took pity on the two brine
girls, and turned them into this pine."
By mortal things, we should set no store:
but hearing this, I wanted to know more.
5. Murasame’s Story Concludes
("Noh" is an ancient Japanese style of
drama, broadly similar to Elizabethan
tragedy. "The Wind in the Pines" is
my version of a well-known Noh play.)
MATSUKAZE & MURASAME
(chanting in harmony)
Pine wind, and autumn rain,
women, sorrow: men, disdain!
MURASAME
As men are ready to play games,
poets are keen to give names.
He said I was the moon in wane,
so he named me after the autumn rain.
My sister's singing is divine,
and he likened her to the wind in the pines.
MATSUKAZE & MURASAME
(chanting in harmony)
Pine wind, and autumn rain,
woman in love, woman insane!
MURASAME
He turned our rice water into milk.
Our fustian gowns became silk.
Three summers we passed, in sensual bliss,
and now we are reduced to this -
ladling brine on a moonlit shore,
never to see our lover more.
MATSUKAZE & MURASAME
(chanting in harmony)
Pine wind and autumn rain,
prisoners in the moon's domain!
MURUSAME
Where humans gather, sickness thrives,
diseases claim uncountable lives.
Returning to the Imperial Court,
Yukihira selfishly sought
his own lettered architrave,
but found instead a common grave.
MATSUKAZE & MURASAME
(chanting in harmony)
Pine wind and autumn rain,
he will not come back again.
MURASAME
Two keepsakes, which we still hold dear -
my sister has them, brings them here -
a man's cloak and a court cap:
leather band, and understrap:
with reverence, see, she gathers them close:
to us, they are his living ghosts.
MATSUKAZE & MURASAME
(chanting in harmony)
Pine wind and autumn rain,
ghosts we are, and must remain!
Long needle pines
chant in a gentle breeze.
I sit motionless. Bathed
in the canorous drone,
feel the tremors
of life’s longing,
the ring of ageless wisdom,
sense the strength
of stoic serenity.
Would that I could take root
and join them
…….in their moment.
5/15/2022
Wisdom from Trees Poetry Contest
4. Murasame Starts to Relate the Story
("Noh" is an ancient Japanese style of
drama, broadly similar to Elizabethan
tragedy. "The Wind in the Pines" is
my version of a well-known Noh play.)
MATSUKAZE & MURASAME
(chanting in harmony)
When fruit is ripe, touching it will burst it.
You quoted his poem, and the stab of pain
was like when the news of his death first hit.
We had hoped never to think of it again.
You did not know. It is not your fault
that our sleeves are wet once more, with salt.
BUDDHIST PRIEST
But why keep on, with attachment to this man,
when you are no longer part of this world of things?
Meditate on the Great Plan,
enjoy the benefits that progress brings!
MATSUKAZE & MURASAME
(chanting in harmony)
We can learn nothing, and nothing forget.
Love is strong, and our sleeves are wet.
Pine wind, autumn rain,
nothing wounds like loving in vain.
MURASAME
We were brine girls, nothing more,
toiling on the Suma shore.
Yukihira came alone,
exiled from the Kyoto throne.
His arms were strong, his skin was fair,
the scent of resin in his long, black hair.
MATSUKAZE & MURASAME
(chanting in harmony)
Pine wind, and autumn rain,
man is bear, and woman, crane.
MURASAME
Man's love is aloof, a thing apart.
A woman is nothing, if not heart.
He loved us, yes - but after his fashion.
Love, for men, is physical passion.
When the time comes, men can sever
the cord - but women love for ever.
silence reigns
in the forest
snowfall
blankets tree limbs
all is calm and hushed
no chirping
of birds
nor wolf howls
moonlight
casts shadows
through the pines
north winds softly hum
a soothing lullaby
stars
gleam from high above
~ December 12, 2022 ~
Writing Challenge - Yalto Form Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
skyline pines aligned
within the needles doves coo…
branches cradle peace
===============
Brian Strand Contest
Name A FREE CHOICE AGAIN
Pines, my native line and birth
From you I came without a dearth
Pines, I shall call you with mirth
To you I return with my vision to unearth
Returning with unearthly wealth
Simple works I offer, not burn
Honor is yours, over my urn.
Toils are not made to harden one's feelings
Or break a heart of stone that churn
Rather to soften outer peelings.
In the City of Pines, vendors are everywhere. High and low prices are everywhere. The once cool region of overflowing love somehow narrowed its space for the younger generation because of commercialization.
Commercialization, on one hand, helps. On the other hand, synchronization is tantamount to compression, which can be a sign of evaporation.
Nevertheless, many people visit the City of Pines, a wonderful site in the East. Foreigners from everywhere troop to the place to witness and feel the beauty of the living pine trees around the city of Baguio -- "bag-iw" in Ibaloi, indigenous language of the region.
I had my chance of visiting the City of Pines, the home of the famous Rice Terraces. I trekked the rough roads and cliffs of the mountains. So cozy and so relieving. The scent of innocence above the mountains and serenity in waters below the mountains. An ethereal scenery with the breeze of resonating heritage.
The City of Pines is rich in culture and tradition. No one would ever wonder that an indigenous tribe can still exist up to the present time.
The musical instruments being played by the people, the indigenous materials sewn and worn by the people are the pride of the said city.
Many beautiful things and memories can be said about the City of Pines. Like the pines of my birth, very close to my heart.