The life is torn.
After the violent explosion,
the bits
float away,
downstream,
dreamily, slowly,
while you stand
watching.
Unreturnable.
The loved life -
the solid-seeming life,
the future plans.
They look beautiful,
the torn pieces,
floating away.
--Deanna Hopper
a train whistle dies
far away in the night . . . . . . silence
the first bird awakens
物の哀れ
sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt
fog swirls, overtakes
the gibbous moon the wine cups
are no longer full
ironic name the
great pacific war a soldier's
son attempts haiku
sidewalk concrete bears
witness to the ghosts of leaves
lost to autumns past
ever so gentle
the winter rain fujiyama
wears down to the sea
--------------------------------------------
*"Mono no aware"/”Tears are inherent in things, and the notion that everything dies intrudes upon our thoughts.”
--Patrick Mizelle
Trades
like a moss or algae on the water
the neon grass rolls over the cemetery lawn
after icy winter rains
She makes little trades –
"if my friend comes through surgery,
I won't fuss about the stolen art piece – "
it was the best piece she ever made
and she knows it's random but feels better
calling it a take-and-give
why begrudge the person
who took it from irresistible impulse?
She would have sold it for money, right?
it would be more mature, she recognizes,
to forgo the thread of cause and effect
but it offers such small consolation
--Ellen Skagerberg
January Selection #2
I’m Expecting to Wake Up Out of This Year Long Dream Any Day Now
Black electrical lines against a purple sky
a pink piano out of focus
with an open book of music that no one knows
how to play.
A crimson chandelier catches the light and the crystal beads glitter
to what has always been a nostalgic glow.
This was winter.
So we escape to lush green
cold beers on white beaches
a black galaxy of stars that break us down
strong currants and mornings we wish we could take back.
We say goodbye in a language not our own.
I return to Spring, gin, confliction.
I hide from the stars
June, July, and August
and I hide from the moon.
I swim nude in murky waters
while my heart slowly goes to sleep.
Before the leaves have fallen,
I am gone again—
flying west over rolling hills
beaches too cold to lay my head upon
and so many birds.
A broken compass guides my days now
through a place that should be so much better.
I check my reckless heart for life,
and watch myself disappear.
I’m expecting to wake up from
this year long dream any day now.
January Selection #3
In the dark
The dew collects on the hundred grasses.
Then the rising full moon
Lights the garden,
Reflecting on the glistening blades
Cutting through the moon shadows.
The tips of my shoes
Are shining too.
--Gregory Wonderwheel
