Puritano

Posts Tagged ‘creative writing’

Haiku 8/2

In writing on August 2, 2020 at 5:25 am

Japanese summer

a boy hunting bugs at dusk

his net the world

Aleph

In writing on July 18, 2020 at 2:26 pm

Redemption peers at you wistfully

knowing full well that it can only be

sensed through the frame of your frail human body

as a broken symmetry

a miraculous aleph steeped in grace

soundless as a slumbering child

or a hunter in deep snow.

One cannot hope to evade such pristine absence

or escape the lure of a continent empty of all

save mute memories of water and stone.

This delicate torrent

this momentary millenium

crashes like the surf on

your dumbstruck, undeserving brow.

A caravel on her maiden voyage

a cracked Russian church bell

that still rings true—

how could you not be the lens

this universe is refracted through?

 

Haiku7/9

In writing on July 9, 2020 at 3:41 am

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Rainy season folds

the sky into neat grey squares

I dream of summer

Once

In writing on July 5, 2020 at 11:46 am

The fiery musings of the prophets

tinkle cracked and cool as ice

in a bottle of bubbly soda.

No longer the dark mistress of a green

and growing world, the one tree

quivers wanly by the road like a

small-time crook in a police line-up.

Festival dancers, whose nimble flashing steps

once mirrored the light and warmth of

their ancestral village, trudge listlessly

across empty parking lots, through

endless anodyne cubicles.

What was that twilight-lullaby that sweet-voiced

Nature used to serenade you with;

what orisons did the Sun cheerfully grant

on summer days when the sky drifted

down with blue imperial ease just to

greet you as a friend?

You stand now on the dusty threshold of

a whole world’s death, idly fingering

the loose change in your pocket.

Haiku, 6/27

In writing on June 27, 2020 at 11:59 pm

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Little Deaths

In writing on June 21, 2020 at 12:13 am

 

All your  little deaths have piled up like dust

in the corner. Sweep them up and

toss them in the rubbish heap, along with

those childhood dreams and certain memories which

would wound like feral cats if one got too close.

A day is a terrible, orphaned thing, born in darkness

and slain scant hours later by the cold mace of the moon.

It staggers sightless through its mayfly realm,

searching for a place to bury its fear.

We too are bound upon the wheel, forever

arranging and rearranging the bric-a-brac

we call life.

Love, a penniless relative, waits meekly outside our door.

A Victory

In writing on June 8, 2020 at 12:52 am

Suddenly it all makes sense.

In the Imperial Palace gardens, on a day

borrowed from a slightly kinder universe:

Tawny June light, just arrived from

being hurled here from the Sun,

graces this glade’s shadowy Parthenon

of oak and pine,

runs like water off the squirming toes of

a feisty, picnic blanket-bound infant,

and pools around a couple’s swooning lips.

Time has taken the afternoon off

and is passing out raspberry lollipops

in mute apology to all those it has wounded.

Silence drifts regally in, a gift from the heavens.

Yet later we will seek, and strive,

like redfaced children in the heat of a game,

while the grass is clapping innumerable soft hands

in unison with the slow swaying of the boughs;

and the crickets’ love struck arpeggios melt

into the plangent chords of the earth,

which tell us patiently that victory

comes only to those

who have themselves already surrendered.BB9DC7C4-1FB5-49DA-BF8A-82D95A9CFBEA

 

Hospital Reverie I

In writing on May 25, 2020 at 12:19 am

The blessedly wide window

fronting my hospital bed

reveals as much of the world

as my weary human heart will let in.

A small, dun-colored hawk

the locals call a tombi

wheels effortlessly in the air,

waiting to swoop down and snatch

a bit of sandwich or donut

from an unsuspecting passerby.

It’s happened to me: once on a spring afternoon

alone on the square below with

the doctor’s words burning a hole

in my soul, I felt a light feathery shove

and there went my ham sandwich.

In  exchange for the loss of the snack,

one gets the rare thrill of seeing a hunter

in action, even if its primeval skills

are in service of scavenging.

”You’re welcome to it!” I  shout

as it makes its arcing getaway.

How wonderfully patient the hawk is,

how at-one-with-sky-and-wind as it floats,

immanent and free.

And how heavy, earthbound, and  altogether

haphazard I am in comparison,

with parts of my body fighting other parts,

Like Lear’s fractious daughters.

Yet, just like the hawk,

I want to live, and snatch someone else’s food.

 

 

 

Tapestry

In writing on April 28, 2020 at 11:19 pm

Pour the blue out of the sky

and spread it on the ground.

You shall walk on heaven then,

and you yourself be crowned.

 

Wash the green out of the sea

then hoist it as a sail.

Far-flung coasts shall reveal themselves,

beckoning you to enter the tale.

 

Dig the brown out of the earth

and weave it into a cloak.

You’ll glide through valleys and over peaks,

evanescent as smoke.

 

Pluck the violet from the rainbow,

the gold from an eagle’s eye;

take the silver from the moonlight,

and red from a setting sun—

turn these tones into a life,

a tapestry of hues.

Today

In writing on April 19, 2020 at 10:15 am

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