Sunday, April 30, 2017

Across The Knife Edge (poem)

Across The Knife Edge

Following the cold trail across the high country,
somewhere in front of us the other summit rises,
invisible in the icy windswept fog.
We must reach the safety of the other side
before the coming storm
reaches us.

Across the knife edge,
faster and faster we go
into the fog of the day.

Along the tumbled edge,
giant rocks make us twist and turn.
Some are hewn too large for us to step.
Faster and faster we go,
into the fog of the day,
into the invisible future.

Across the knife edge,
the path narrows as we climb,
but we don’t see it yet.
Why don’t we see it?
Hunting, hunting
for ground beneath our feet.
Will we stop or turn
before it falls away –
Why don’t we see it?
Hunting, hunting
for ground beneath our feet.

Across the knife edge,
into the fog of the day,
through the wind, ahead of the storm,
to the safety of the other side,
into the invisible future,
we race.

May 2014 North Andover, Mass.

Monday, April 17, 2017

From The Christening (poem)

From The Christening

Those who came before us
are not gone,
even though they rest today
in quiet fields of stone and flower.

Those we love who are gone
live in mind and heart,
their home,
alive in love’s power.

But more than this,
those who came before
and gave us life,
or read stories to us at a Sunday visit,
played games together at the family picnic,
gazed out the window with us during the storm –
arms around –
or held us at the christening,
still live I claim.

Look back through the lens of time.
Follow the unseen line of sight,
not my invention,
but one that science calls dimension.

This story tells of an unbroken line, a celestial strand,
a woven thread of strength eternal.
The eternal now.

Now.
The ones we love
are still as they were,
alive and strong,
though passed from our easy view.
They still move and breathe,
laugh and sing,
on that line of time,
as real as yesterday,
like friends who moved away
now living in another town.
But we’re the ones who moved.
Still, that strand is in our reach.

I feel the threads return and join,
connecting to the fabric here
that I now hold in hand,
this fabric of the gown passed down
from the christening.

April 2014  North Andover, Mass.



Saturday, April 15, 2017

here are some haiku / standing here looking at you / say kon'nichiwa

I wanted to share some haiku I wrote, but before I do, I wanted to start with a few by Japan's most renowned haiku poet, Matsuo Bashō, who lived from 1644 to 1694. These are translated by Jane Reichhold. Enjoy.

114
ah haru haru
yōinaru kana haru
to un nun

ah spring spring
how great is spring
and so on

29
haru kaze ni
fukidashi warau
hana mogana

spring winds
hoping the flowers burst
out in laughter

96
hatsu hana ni
inochi shichi jyū
go nen hodo

first blossoms
seeing them extends my life
seventy-five more years



my haiku about haiku


the words are loaded
in the poetic pistol they wait
bang! flowers appear!


simple only, so
around, it sees, it hears, so
in the moment, so


the haiku – not clear
a few words say what they say
everyone says what?


the black ink stands small
tries to fill the empty page
white space fills the rest


a poem
a suitcase of words
packed with brain, heart, and soul
ready for travel