Late Post: September 28th Haibun

The Way of Wheels

I have no idea why I keep counting, but they are there as if to say, "I'm important too!" They are dark discarded wedges, like curled up cobras (perhaps more like an ouroboros as we take the same route to and from the many places we go each day), or like pieces of doughnut in the middle of the road or highway. Some have frayed ends like thistledown, or have blown up like bits of confetti or myrtle blossoms after the guests are long gone. Some are next to rusted rims and cubed pebbles of glass, and some others have skid marks that point to them like where "X" marks the spot as if there's an accident because the driver is too drunk to notice the world and pay attention to the color-coded sky of red and green against the hungry stars.

late September
steering away from the cracks
in the road
the fall of my thoughts
at the water fountain


*Written 9/28/2011; revised 9/30/2011.
(Written for the Writing as Spiritual Practice E-course and WOWH's Mindful Writing Prompt #16.)

For Svetlana Marisova, RIP

floating
to the softest twilight
a thousand lanterns
across the sea . . .
if only I was strong enough
to hold you even closer
this half-moon
of a gentle angel
with psalms
to watch over us

***

in this evening cool
sketching your face
in the stars . . .
somehow I feel
we have met half-way
in this single breath


For Svetlana Marisova, RIP. ♥ You do not know how much your words touch and lift my heart. Thank you for your friendship and for everything you are. ♥ I'll miss you.

[A crisp breath . . .]

A crisp breath of coral light. My morning rush out the door slows by half an octave on the driveway. Yes, I sing of autumn.


(Written for the Writing as Spiritual Practice E-course and @3ournal.)

Morning Cram Before Exams...

Two flycatchers chase a weak thread of sunrise. One snaps & chews on a yellow petal-sized wing. I flutter back to my study notes.


(Written for the Writing as Spiritual Practice E-course and @3ournal.)

My Own Stitches

Stitches: The importance of every moment, every silence that is now pregnant with my anxiety and stress.

Stitches: The time to study is a time to digest the importance (or non-importance) of information... or apprehension.

Stitches: The trial-and-error experimentation of playtime versus study time, decision time, analysis, and preparation. Like NOW.

Stitches: The impending acceptance of insomnia and sleep deprivation.

Stitches: The amount of time it takes to find shortcuts and going in circles.

Stitches: And finally, the faith that (almost) anything is possible, including the relief and the healing afterwards as these stitches disintegrate.


(Written for the Writing as Spiritual Practice E-course.)

Now You See It, Now You Don't...

taking off from the rooftop of a sandwich shop
and into the hair-swirling wind,
a hawk one blink,
and on the next:
a sun-washed tattered winged-newspaper
scraping the bottom of low stagnant clouds,
scraping away my grumpiness

(Written for 9/04/2011)

Concentration

Across the page, cells are multiplying like popcorn,
snowballing into a fetus floating inside a liquid balloon.

Where did it go?

This time I found myself
looking for Time
under my work desk, on my cell phone,
between Post-it notes and long chains
of paperclips,
but its burgundy breath
sinks into my skin
unnoticed like moonbeams
through gossamer curtains
with no footprints to retrace
myself back
to the beginning.

Scratches

outside my study window
free-floating clouds
layering over the scratches
of my heart
the same way as
these carefree cerulean scratches
of ink on French vanilla-colored paper


(Thank you, Andrea, for the idea of scratches. It's very fitting for me today.)

After my jog/walk today...

Twister turning
a cricket
under a rumble of feet

***

spinning top
a cricket under a rumble
of feet

***

spinning top
a cricket
under a rumble of feet

***

crisp breeze
on every runner's back
sweat of angel wings

***

crackling chatter
at the fountain's edge
brown jays

Deepening

Unable to articulate this sadness deepening within my heart, I am sitting with it
like a dull knife waiting for a reason to be sharpened.

Labyrinth Thoughts

wiping its nose
within the sleeves
of its feathers...
mockingbird

***

alone on this journey
my spirit found me
in the bends and folds
of this labyrinth

***

within this labyrinth
the beginning
the end...
all the same

***

on this journey
the only friend,
my spirit who found me
in the breaths and folds
of this labyrinth

***

my lost spirit
wandering on this journey
I found it again
in this labyrinth garden

***

at the labyrinth's edge
my spirit eclipses
the sunset

Rain, rain, please come again

high heat index--
my mosquito bite
the size of a fat raindrop

Ambrosia

the sweetest manna
from heaven...
words, words, words

Another Love Story

with your fingers
you trace a bit of armani mania
from my cheekbones to my chin,
then curl a strand of my hair
around my seashell ear
and cover me with a kiss
on my startled lips

falling again
in the dark
into you
like another new moon

Rain & Other Little Poems

on the window panes
so many silver sequins
of rain

***

the fence
just as dark
as the washed bark
of a tree

***

between us
so many layers
of gray...
while writing this poem
cherry stains on the margins

Longevity & Other Thoughts

A simple five minutes of resting my eyes in the midst of a bell tolling from my brother's video game creates an ebb of stress-buildup.

***

ebbing and flowing
beneath my hands at my sides
my breath

***

Longevity is to breathe the yogic breath.

***

bell tolling...
the showdown of growls
among the neighborhood dogs

Today's Stone (7/27/2011)

Today is tired and filled with things all too red

like cherries and an all-too-soft nectarine
and howling at the moon

into smokey clouds

that can't make up their minds
to rain or let the copper sunset
fill into the earthy cracks

of my heart.

[Today's small stone is inspired by Angie Werren (@therer2doors), a superb writer, photographer, and friend. I have read many of her poems and poetic fragments/prose beginning with, "Today is..." in wonderfully creative ways. Thought I'd give this a try today as I thought of it.]

Pollock's Ravioli

The tomato sauce burned my right pinky. I yelped and dropped the microwaved-styrofoam plate of ravioli on the table in the lounge. The sauce radiated around the plate like puddles of steaming sunlight and touched the corners of the table, edges of chairs... speckled the pastel sea-green tiled floors, and splattered the white walls as if Pollock had became a starving artist with no more paint but food to cover the drunk walls of his chaotic mind.

Admiration was only temporary as I had to wipe away the evidence of this very moment.


(This stone is also a tribute to Jackson Pollock. I thought of him while cleaning up my mess at lunchtime.)

Where is the love?

the finest touch
on the cheek
a single teardrop

***

the shush of leaves
as our shadows embrace

***

warm summer wind
not wanting the night
to end so soon

***

those three little words
older than my own...
summer wind

***

he tells me
I have changed...
new blossom