Long Crimson Poems
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a haibun ABSTRACTION
The soft yellow streaked the terra cotta,shadowing the speckled sallow saffron
a bluish buff upon the cochineal;brilliant boneblack grizzled the engrain
citrine carnation as the fallow flaxen,rustic rubrical rainbow-tinted
the magenta mandarine;unseen the ultra-marine, tinged burnt sienna,
reflecting a golden flame of raw umbery upon the earth green;bright mosaic gold
mottled the sallow sorrel virent yellow,oak stained the pale apricot;while
blood red,reddish russetdotted the olive lind;freckled crimson,a chestnut maroon,
on fuchsias faded apple green as burnt rumber sank deep into its sanguine slumber.
I walk through the glade
abstractions enlighten me-
colour my rainbow
you hear me recite this haibun and much of my PS poetry on youtube unfer my pen name ichthyschiro
catch my short form @strandpoet on twitter
When my muse ruled
my conscience's compass,
waterfalls of rhyming rivers
revealed unspoken secrets -
long forgotten in my heart.
Exposing vulnerable verses
from vaults where vines
had wrapped my tongue
into subdued silence.
In the Injustices of
judicial juxtaposition,
speech spoke in a
paradoxical oxymoron -
'deafening silence'
Pouring in drops of crimson,
I became a convicted cliché,
taken hostage in a
Machiavellian marketplace,
where I felt illiterate - harassed,
by insidious guards and
anapestic gangsters.
In the personification
of confinement,
where word weavers
are poetically unapologetic,
virtual villains ventured
to plagiarize my vocabulary.
An enjambment of envious
eyes attempted to burn
my anthology of alliterations,
so I buried each chapter
in a communal garden,
under a galaxy of ghazals,
hoping pantoum petals,
would bloom in scarlet
stanzas with sophisticated
syllables of rhythmic refrains.
Agitated by
artificial assonance,
my artistry is an
analogy of angst,
where cathartic couplets
of consistent consonance
care not for iambic ideologies.
My elusive elegy is the
legacy of my resistance,
as in my melancholy,
I'll forever be a
misunderstood metaphor.
Silencing intrusive ink,
to prevent another massacre.
With no concern for applause,
I've removed the
garlands of sakura chains.
For I'm no longer a
prisoner of poetry,
but my muse's musk
still remains....
In Eden’s primeval era,
in the Garden’s lush center,
what was the Tree of Life like
in all its mythic mystery?
Did its robust branches spread low and wide,
the perfect roost for birds and primates?
Did innocent birds sing joyously in their nests,
or was there a reverent hush within the leaves?
Were the countless emerald leaves long and broad,
ever blazing with brilliant phosphorescent glow?
Did its fruit radiate the color of crimson,
the juice oozing the nectar of redemption?
Was that everlasting Tree a divine gift
withdrawn from humanity for all time?
After Adam and Eve’s heartbreaking eviction
and humanity’s scattering to thistled lands,
what ensued in the enigmatic Garden,
after vanishing in first sin’s aftermath?
Did the Tree weep like a willow,
folding its branches in prayer
for some future redemption
and return to the Garden,
for them, for us,
for you, for me.
Is the tree weeping for us still,
like willows of Babylon wept
along with Jewish captives
who hung lyres in the branches,
while cruelly taunted by captors
during the long exile from Zion?
We too were exiled from Eden,
and exiled also from Zion,
exiled from one another,
exiled furthermore from God.
But lost exiles
can yet return.
In Revelation’s heavenly vision,
by the quiet river’s crystal water,
the Tree calmly awaits
the first couple’s return
to the renewed Garden
in its enhanced glory.
The eternal Tree beckons,
while waiting millennia,
for them, for us,
for you, for me.
The tree yields continuous, copious crops
of its shining, savory, succulent fruit,
and the soothing, curative leaves of the Tree
can heal hearts of humans who wish to come.
Will you come to the Tree,
behold its bright beauty,
inhale its fresh fragrance,
and savor its goodness?
Let’s climb that tree together,
resting on its wide branches,
to eat its unforbidden fruit
and use salvific leaves to wipe
sweet juices and salty tears
from our forgiven faces.
The laceleaf maple's crimson organs fall
and scatter on the ground like shattered glass,
as naked shadowed fingers shade the pall
and Autumn days prepare to shout their last.
Now in the forest cling the stubborn few
whose tendrils rage against the Winter wind
- die proudly at the helm of fate they knew
the promised gift that nature would rescind.
Yet like the Winter rye on fallow fields
the leaves will sleep to feed the roots of Spring,
to celebrate the births that warmth will yield
and cycle of the promised gift to bring.
For now the Autumn winks its stratus grays
reminding us of past November days.
I pressed a rose
taken from the bouquet of lavender,
a dozen scented budding and flowering
fragrance rising in the warm spring sun.
Strange to think that these you did not see
when roses were flowers you pressed easily.
Once they were yellow, friendship hinted bonds
that slipped to floral pink shades with time
and in the later years, the crimson red
bulged blossoms of love.
The service said it all
my tears in the silence freely falls
as these last years stretched out
and your silent acceptance bared your pain.
Time and age are indecipherable
as we each played our roles
and all the dreams and experiences
framed us into who we are, were.
Baby's breath and lavender roses pale and dry
in a last kiss goodbye and farewell
while the very bonds of love
remain forever tied.
Rain, rain, go away.
Because of you the pain
Will stay.
Slit my throat
Cut out my heart,
Leave me here and
Tear me apart.
Poison tears stream
Down my face,
My heart beats at a
Steady pace
As I try to stand again
Alone and in the rain
I don’t need you
Anymore…
Is what I think while
Tears pour.
I hate you like I
Hate my life,
But love is what
Cuts like a knife
Love is death
And death is you.
It pain stains like a
Black tattoo.
Those memories come
Back again
And bind me in the
Ropes of pain.
Crimson blood down my head,
Like a long silk ribbon,
Tied by a thread.
To a sliver bullet,
A hole in my skull
… Now just a memory
That’s faded to a dull…
Now I’m free of sorrow and
Of you.
Spring silences
The heavy winter heart
The darkness, so distraught
Breathless with the hope
Growing in each new leaf
Every joy, every belief
Summer soothes
With rains washing away
The shadows of fear
The fractured feelings, emotions
Dreams abiding in the peace
Wonders so alive they never recede
Into the navy blue tides
Where the sea meets the sand
And releases so many prayers
Autumn whispers
Leaves falling in blessings
Harvest caresses, sensations
Alive, dancing on the inside
Pouring out laughter and memory
A nostalgic glimpse into the soul
Who knows only light, vibrant
Healing the darkness of a night
Who shimmers and glimmers
Starlight blinking against a backdrop
The heavy ebony truth, proof
To everything there is a season
Winter refreshes
Souls with many blessings
Promises rejuvenating, caressing
Kissing the snow as if falls
Delicate, light as a feather
Restoring the wonderful ambiance
Splendorous, beautiful – alive
Assurance of God’s design in every moment
The presence of purity, praise
Awakening the grace of a smile
From heaven’s light passing by
The seasons inspire
Reflections of glorious nature
Stirring the music, the melody
To life – alive – like the spirit
Who revives a holy fire
A crimson sky in the heavens
Where time slices through stardust
Appreciation, praise that welcomes
The beauty of this powerful
Quest to reach beyond the dew
To the edge of the radiance
Where joy colors hearts in hues
Sensitive to God’s creation
A setting sun inks purple mountain peaks,
painting frescoes on slopes of sullied snow.
And smearing scarlet in blotches and streaks,
its art surpasses Michelangelo.
Shadows scurry to merge with silhouettes,
as acrobatic bats hunt moths in flight.
And when Night gets as quiet as it gets,
ebony extinguishes Dusk's last light.
Crimson and cerise color carmine skies,
as Sol's chariot gilds the edge of Night.
And trillions of stars materialize,
twinkling overhead like jewels of light.
And in the heavens hangs a beaming moon,
light pooling around it, like liquid gold.
For glowing as bright as a gold doubloon,
Luna's face is a wonder to behold.
I find myself upon the woodland’s floor.
Adrift am I each time wind starts to blow.
My brothers and my sisters are no more.
How long I’ve wandered I don’t even know!
I yearn for days of warmth when all was green
and birdsong filled the air. I miss my home.
I feel wind’s fury as I now careen.
My fate I dread. Oh, how long must I roam?
My color that changed crimson has grown dim.
Has God a care for me? I've withered small.
The cold comes creeping and the sky’s gone grim.
I tremble, sorrowing to see snow fall.
If verdant bliss awaits each dying tree,
what of its leaves? May snow come bury me.
Dawn’s xanthous blooming through the forest trees.
Bouquet from God’s hand suddenly immersed in light.
Flaming pine without a flicker, matchless crimson seize.
Skinny oaks like a garden gate, applauds pleasing sight.
O blaze of origin -
Sun’s ancient grin.
That was art and then the brush of current events -
First snow! Ah, my trees with crystal light not senseless rain.
Pavement filled in, tires leave their treads with my consent.
I throw on coat and boots! Twirl around outdoors, this child insane!
Flurries fallen footprints -
God’s gift of lighthearted chintz.
2/8/2020