spoor tracks
imprint
the virgin snow-
footsteps of yesteryear
echo in my mind
spoor tracks
imprint
the virgin snow-
footsteps of yesteryear
echo in my mind
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2007
spoor tracks
imprint
the virgin snow-
footsteps of yesteryear
echo in my mind
NOTE:A tanka in English is essentially a 3 line hiku(SHOW)with a couplet amplification (TELL)
spoor tracks
imprint
the virgin snow-
footsteps of yesteryear
echo in my mind
NOTE:A tanka in English is essentially a 3 line hiku(SHOW)with a couplet amplification (TELL)
Questions of truth, alas become moot--
O'er angry voices, truth seldom heard
Like branches strayed from their mother root
We've strayed then planted another word,
chosen belief in the most absurd.
In times of war, truth begs to be seen,
yet trampled, however one may lean--
Torn in Viet Nam, Afghanistan,
Six O'clock fact or fiction routine:
fingers pointing at every man.
Why is truth killed when war needs it most?
That question is asked through the ages,
Perhaps lies dwell in a virus host,
Or, we need truth meted in stages,
lies bake troubled souls as war rages.
Truth rests among those--the dead of war.
Yet, we also lost truth years before.
Perhaps a new potion we'll soon find
to cure the people and kill lies' spoor
and leave its destruction far behind.
March 28, 2022
for the "Why is Truth the First Casualty of War and why is That a Fact"
by Sotto Poet
spoor tracks
imprint
the virgin snow-
footsteps of yesteryear
echo in my mind
NOTE:Essentially a tanka in English is a 3 line hiku(SHOW)& a 2 line couplet (TELL) comment
It sprang upon me,
a clawed metaphor
not anything real,
but a shaggy crypto-beast.
Hand picked alliterations
scatter like litter.
Then the seductive purr
the mannered modes, the manicured forms
those deftly obvious diphthongs
that like spoor, lead to more -
the unmistakable reek of
a force-fed poem
The first step they say is recognition,
the second step is to admit
a laryngeal contrivance.
The third step is to clean up
without complaint,
when it poops all over the page.
spoor tracks
imprint
the virgin snow-
footsteps of yesteryear
echo in my mind
| Year Posted 2007
Getting nostalgic around days by the lake.
We moaned while touching the pond's water.
The lake's base shimmered with life and hake.
As love, spirit and peace aren't a clumsy bailor.
Nothing moves as I stroll out onto the lake.
See the moon's full splendor in insight.
A great time is in the offing for my sake
The lake cottage has its own quality sleight.
From the morning's veils to the cricket's sing;
Midnight shimmer, noon a purple hue.
And the night is full of a linnet's wing.
I hear lake water lapping the shore and grew.
Summer by the lake is my most loved place.
We can sense the water underneath our feet.
What a series of subtle signals you pace.
As a deer might be viewed as an omen meet.
You will be unquiet on the dance floor.
Shadow is an awfully tasteful player.
The morning dew shines with rich spoor.
Awareness of one's own being the conveyor.
A speck of sand got lodged in your hair.
Bronze in its design phase July desire.
Step near, my love, and sustain the snare.
I recall your gaze emitted a blaze of fire.
Written: September 10, 2021
Behind the door,
Lay your shattered tears in seafloor,
Pardon my betrayal outdoor,
My heart wandered away indoor,
Through the trap door,
Never let this guy indoor,
She recalled his spoor,
Washing the floor,
Broken doorknobs,
A love stopped to a hidden doorsill,
He laments in the dooryard.
Doorways dispersed the doorstops...
Crying her heart, a home withoutdoors,
Dead as a doornail...
We are in glass houses full of our own insanity.
We are built of bricks and blood,
Bone N soul howling in stone.
We are the strong that out lie the wrong.
They are the one
The coming son
The spoor of the Immaculate, ejaculate, and bombastic!
We can see each and every particle of the night (fantastic)...
The black element of the cursed universes...
We are the ones that swim in the golden rays
Of the holy son.
Driven in time…
Around the outer runs.
The pools of Immaculate, Cuming insane.
Of godheads and broke thrones,
Of immature hours, stars, and moons...
Feeling its power!
We are the glass minds, inner sight,
We build buildings of infinite,
We need fires that light.
The inner walls of our glasshouse...
We build; Bricks, sticks, and machined things.
The black elements of the cursed universe...
Take flight on dark mineral wings.
spoor tracks
imprint
the virgin snow-
footsteps of yesteryear
echo in my mind
Running wild propelled by echoes of thunderous hooves clip clopping rhyme
A troop of stallions gallop in assonance over fields of pasture in adnomination
Display streams of collective unconsciousness un-trapped by stirrups and reigns
Apposition knows no boundaries when pairing takes part in euphonic neighing
Here in Nirvana they need neither hyperbole nor euphemism to cover lost ground
Para-diastole does not exist in equine paradise as syncope and solecism canter
Karma has no boundaries and parrhesia has lost the shadows of juxtaposed isms
Unsaddled from the weight of the whip the horizon bears no limit for freedom
The herd adheres not to the pathetic fallacy of tamed nature riding roughshod
Over rhetorical questions or self-styled syllepsis of spurs spurned on by clatter
When I look at the feast of mares and fillies following instinct and pure inclination
My path finds their spoor on track to a promised land of inhibition and pleasure
29th March 2020
He slopes across the backyard,
a dawn moon painting his form blue.
The night itself is icy blue,
blue shadows streak the snow.
A bushy tail
flicks aside patches of darkness.
He sniffs frozen spoor,
explores with electric whiskers.
His face turns toward my window;
though I am in a darkened room
the icicles that hang from the casement
are aquamarine.
I am sure he can see me.
A quick curious stare,
then he is over a low fence
whisking snow.
The windowpane grows brighter.
He returns through a hedgerow,
now he is dusky-red,
yet his eyes still glow
with a blue Luna sheen.
Maybe he wants to take another look at me.
Maybe he knows I have prepared
ham and eggs for breakfast;
ham and eggs
arranged on blue china plates.
It sprang upon me,
a clawed metaphor
not anything real,
but a shaggy crypto-beast.
Then the seductive purr
the mannered modes, the manicured forms
those deftly obvious diphthongs
that like spoor, lead to more -
the unmistakable reek of
a force-fed poem
The first step they say is recognition,
the second step, is to admit
a laryngeal contrivance.
The third step is to clean up
without complaint,
when it craps all over the page.
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