714.
My word of the day
Is sesquipedalian;
Even though I’m mute.
Month: March 2021
Dehiscence
One day, this existence
Will all be water
Under the bridge disappeared,
A life as fragile and as delicate
As the dehiscent fears
Of a daffodil descending,
Or dreams in the oblong
Wrongs of my bluebell tears,
Or the crinoline ribs
Of a single chicken’s egg
In a bowl, on a table,
Her perfectly oval
Smooth essence of Soul
Controls internal elements
And hides the chalazae
Of you and I
In albumen and furrows.
In the furthest distance
Untravelled, a dog is asleep
On a Mediterranean
Mezzanine painted
In daffodil-yellow.
Outside, the ruffled pigeons
Are courting again,
Their chests as wide
As the yawns of lionesses,
Just like last year.
The glazed terracotta breaks,
And another ten the same.
I reach into my own senescence.
You Are My Orchard
You are my orchard
And I am the apple;
You are my court
And I am the gavel;
You are my fishnet,
Trapping my salmon
Pink, anadromous,
Under your trident.
You are my bread
With spread raspberry leavened;
You are my harp’s head
And I am the chords,
You: Calliope, Erato,
Terpsichore, and I am
A new murmillo, absorbed;
We dance and we pause
While wild a world billows,
Resist the red pillows
And red-fonted clause
In a river once thawed.
You are X upon X
And I am your ink,
We wake from our trance
And bleach their gold sinks.
Haiku #713
713.
Empty lifeboathouse,
Grey sea. No true fishermen
To rescue remain.
The Withering Tree
The leaves upon the withering tree,
What’s good for him is not for me;
Mid-March grey, by May green,
Where he went cannot be seen;
Do dreams prolong without him?
Those stowed within his mind, it seems,
Harboured for my doubting.
Changed my clothes, change of scene,
Their remedies, a routing;
Bury me under a withering tree,
Atop the Oxen Mountain.
Haiku #712
712.
Green porcelain cat,
Transmogrified in a dream
Into my nude love.
Haiku #711
711.
Empty moon or two;
Not even blue. Remnants from
Ancient collisions.
Haiku #710
710.
Phenomenal Ox;
This, the year of my being.
Spring love falls early.
Haiku #707 – #709
707.
Did I make the rule,
Or did the governing rules
Make bluebells from me?
708.
Little spider’s world,
Long hibernation’s ended;
Fearless, these atoms.
709.
I am the ink-dot
Of daily exclamations.
Punctuated soul.
Blossom Song
Trailing dust,
Comet rust
And cobweb love.
Daffodils,
Window sill,
Battle-hardened,
Karmic loss.
Nothing’s the same,
Unembossed.
There is no greater joy
Alighting these belfries
In my heart,
Than cherry blossom,
Pink and reborn.