\ l /
* I R C *
\ * C my ears L * /
* G N I *
/ l \
cicadas sound;
I can feel the heat
of the Summer sun
with just that sound;
the sizzling,
midmorning hum,
as my air clicks on
and I tap away
and I sip from mug
and I sit, though I fly
far away to childhood
or meditate on this very
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The Odd Narrative
Steamed up the window, my finger I paint a landscape,
Mountain, forest, and lake; the peak cries into
the lake becomes a vast ocean,
where trees made into wooden rafts floats
Midmorning, there is only an outline left of the crest,
this will happen to the Himalayas,
it will be a grassland on a plateau where horses gallop,
flying mane and all that,
since man won’t be there to domesticate and make them
drag bunk beds and kitchen stoves around the pampas.
The rest of the world will have sunk into a big sea that is so still
it spends all its time mirroring the blue sky thinking, it’s seeing
is so deeply in love with the image,
that doesn’t notice the man in a rowing boat; he’s one time forgotten,
he has married a big fish
which he thinks is a mermaid, often puts his hand in
the sea and strokes the fish’s belly: “without you,” he murmurs
“I would truly be alone.”
Sucking on the light, midmorning
Frost clings to the window’s pane, twisted
Praise, adorning the silence – winds
Heavy as the slow rhythm, heartbeats
Rising from the daily chores, stirring awake
The little morsels of bitterness, ice
Welded to the glass in misty stories
Poetic tributes to the winter’s twilight
Signing the moments with a signature
Hopeful and knowing that snowflakes
Pour out the presence of a star flooded night
While the lavender skies, merged with sapphire
Beats, echoing grief sown into the shadows
Revealing what it means to listen to the peaks
Chorus a slushy path through the darkness
Mountains aching to breath, sighing
Like her destiny is more than just dreams
A winter’s melody, in bleached out drifts
Alive and touched by the peace, echoing
Across the snowy ridges, winter’s grieving
slept on dunes
midmorning waking to seagulls' cries
lifeguard's oceanic kisses
I come from a long line of tea drinkers
just plain orange pekoe tea
we went through many tea pots
have you ever seen tea cozies
they were meant to keep the pot warm
my mom was very particular about the spout
she said it had to be exactly the right shape
to avoid dripping when pouring
we had tea, morning, midmorning, lunch,
afternoon, supper, after supper, at bedtime
we had tea anytime ...
I love my tea very hot
making sure I have to very first cup
we put milk in ours
never honey or plain
there is something so homey about tea time
oh, I recall those days past
of storytelling while drinking tea
grandma would say when things went wrong
come, I'll make you a nice cup of tea
she seemed to think tea would cure all our woes
and I think they did
or was it the conversation
yes, I have my favorite cup
not dainty but not too big and not quite mug
my cat likes tea also
she kept drinking mine
so I make her one (I think its the milk)
she has her very own cup now
I love sitting by the fireplace with my tea
just relaxing on a cold winter night
what could be more delightful
As lonely sighs drift across the mountaintops
Mists linger ‘til midmorning, caressing trees
It's evident that the temperature slowly drops,
For a chill is accompanying the August breeze.
Slight hints of color nestle in along the crown
As lonely sighs drift across the mountaintops
A few leaves, growing tired, are drifting down
For autumn leans heavily on August’s props.
Predicting summer’s sodden humid day’s sops
We can enjoy hints of coming autumn’s glamor
As lonely sighs drift across the mountaintops
They call to mind the end of summer’s clamor.
Be still and you can hear echoes of September
Chants of “the hills are alive” music never stops,
The lovely days of August, always to remember
As lonely sighs drift across the mountaintops.
Written August 11, 2022
Out where the blooming path comes to an end,
Along with wildflowers and Queen Anne's Lace,
A white sandy beach is waiting in the sunshine,
With a house so inviting at the day's primetime.
Seagulls are swooping and diving so endlessly,
Like the turquoise waves that come crashing in,
Before rushing back out to wild fathomless sea!
At the end of the beginning of gold midmorning,
It is noontime in the silent house of the sun.
Red butterflies are flittering on a soft breeze,
And the bees have begun their quest for honey.
Blooms yellow orange and red sit upon the porch,
As if somehow lit up, by the sun's flaming torch!
Oops!
In our backyard five apple trees abide - harvest of red, yellow, green fruit our pride
Bushels of fruit overflow from their baskets - looks like nature this year blew a gasket.
Way too many apples for us to eat - now time to share of our ripe apples sweet
So with our neighbors we’ll divvy these treats - for lunches, pies, snacks and midmorning feasts.
Just a month later - just enough for a pie a Sunday night treat as cold raindrops fly
Measure the spices then roll out the crust - bake in the oven - dessert just for us!
Oops! Tripled the flour! Now I lament - :o - as we pick out baked apples from flour cement!
True story! Instead of 3/4c of sugar I added ¾ c of flour! At least we salvaged the apples. My boys have never let me forget this gastronomic disaster! A true lesson in humility!
11-24-20
Contest: Make Me Laugh with Some Humor
Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
Autumn sky glows yellow against blue hue sky;
turns windy, rainy a long languorous day.
Swirls of fresh intoxicating aria.
midmorning showers
rootless lingering rainbow~
scent of petrichor
Outdoors allure afresh, stunning once again.
Sun kissed fragrant richer fruitful harvest fields.
Woods once rich with leaves fall round and round with wings.
quenching nature's thirst
harmonious double arch~
whole world auspicious
An evening walk to the pond a calming sense;
near the bank we saw large bear paws sunk deeply
into the mud, quietly cutting our walk short.
black bear foraging
spawning fish bantering play~
heart beats in slumber
9/7/2020
Let the Pens Flow - Haibun Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Jenish Somadas
If my right hemisphere
deep roots around in dreamy primordial emotions
longing to see morning's money sunlight,
to color early midmorning questions
green ideas
emerging bilateral conversations
dialogue about mystery
and overly-commodified history,
Does my left hemisphere
emerge stems
stalking future leaves
then emerging fertile flowers, articulate?
then seeds, implicate
healthy integral potential
longing to incarnate portentous
afternoon's pretentious communal activities
preparing to sing and slow dance summer evenings
While repurposing reverent questions, medications
worthy of a night's rooting
right hemisphere prominent
meditations.
Two bees or not two bees, let say, a pair
of drones in love on their honeymoon
as long as daylight, tell me how you dare
to be so happy while the afternoon
already stretched the elongated shadows
of trees across the gravel dark and wet
from the midmorning rain, the endless meadows
and farther to the twilight which has yet
to step into the breech. Look how the heaven
is getting darker, how the honey herbs
close up to sleep. It’s twenty five to seven
but it is strange: if anything disturbs
you, it’s the hug that seemed to be some meager,
it is the kiss that wasn’t sweet enough.
The drones don’t fear the darkness, they are eager
for night so they could go in the buff.
Down on the pier, the midmorning bright,
Thronged wives, husbands, lovers,
And sons, friends, young daughters,
All eyes perusing the grand and gray ship
In long-simmered hope of glimpsing one face,
One much-beloved grin, among antsy sailors
Arrayed in white jumpers along the tall deck,
‘Til, filing like ants, crew at last disembarked:
A long, gangling line descended the gangway,
Dispersed and filtered, absorbed by the crowd,
One young and trim yeoman elbowing through,
Enfolding his wife—petite, trembling gal—
Into long, lanky arms, her buxom breast pressing,
Squeezing tight to his chest
And stoking, thereby, his half-a-year’s yearning
To hold and be kissed,
To kiss once again this doll from high school—
And the assemblage transformed
By thinning and ebbing away from the pier,
While that sailor still kissed, hugged his wife tight,
Past months dissolving, by love overwhelmed,
‘Til, still holding close, they silently strolled
Relieved he’d returned—
He’d come home to his wife.
The Odd Narrative
Steamed up window my finger I paint a landscape,
Mountain, forest and a lake; the peak cries into
the lake it becomes a vast ocean,
where trees, are made into wooden rafts floats.
Midmorning, there is only an outline left of the crest,
this will happen to Himalaya,
it will be a grassland on a plateau, where horses gallop,
flying mane and all that,
since man won’t be there to domesticate and make them
drag bunk beds and kitchen stoves around the pampas.
The rest of the world will have sunk into a big sea that is so still
it spends all its time mirroring the blue sky thinking it’s seeing
is so deeply in love with the image,
that doesn’t notice the man in a rowing boat; he’s one time forgot,
he has married a big fish
which he thinks is a mermaid, every so often he puts his hand in
the sea and strokes the fish’s belly: “without you,” he murmurs
“I would truly be alone.”
Six blue jays converge at the birch
To sing their anomalous colloquial song,
They fashion a serene scene as they perch;
My mind so inclined to blindly sing along.
As I ponder their ways, in my midmorning daze;
I recall a tale my grandmother told—
Of a desolate day through a dishwashing gaze;
A heinous sight she was doomed to behold.
Through her window; across the drive,
On the very top of some man-made pole,
A sinless and beautiful robin arrived;
Assembled a nest and called it her home.
She laid some eggs at the edge of spring,
And by summer they joined the day,
She taught her young about everything
For the time that comes when they should stray.
But then one day while mother was out
Collecting a feast for the rest of her nest,
A single blue jay swooped in for a bout—
Snipped off their heads and left.
Mother came back to the horrid mess;
The tragically pointless abhorrent wreck,
And with frantic confusion and great distress
She flew into the window and broke her neck.
So as I stare in the garden today;
And view such a seemingly innocent sight,
Behind the charm of those six blue jays
Could possibly rein six times the fright.
“What was I thinking? I lost track of time.”
Running to the seaside home before the clock is nine
The water cooling from the heat of summer
Her feet are numb from the cool temperatures that plunder
Across the waters, towards the house she glides
Beating the forceful midmorning tides
Ah but, she’s an apparition lingering in my time
The curtain that draws memories closed is a fine-line
Will she be noticed past my prime?
She waved! She said goodbye, then blew a kiss!
Looking at the beach, in memories, I will reminisce.
Who was she? What was her story?
Oh, perhaps it was for love, aw perhaps for my glory.
I will never know, perhaps, she knows already?
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