April Fool (a "haiku" cycle): IX

Prosody: One Reason


A prism casts rainbows:

Its obliquity serves the

Peripheral view.

April Fool (a "haiku" cycle): VIII

I wonder, doctor,
If the fact you have not called
Is good news, or bad?


"Not so good," she says.
"The specter of recurrence
Has assumed your form."


This is a fiction
Concocted in anxious thoughts,
Not reality.


A lab test assures
My own resurrection day,
Remission of fear.

April Fool (a "haiku" cycle): VII

I am number five
I came up lame in the sixth
Half furlong to go.

April Fool (a "haiku" cycle): VI

Nights are chill, days, hot,

With summer still three months away.

We live chaparral.

The songs of the hawk,

Owl, mockingbird, and blue jay:

They are at home here.

Witch hazel and sage,

Coast live oak and sycamore,

Mesquite and madrone

Tinge the air with spice,

Both wake and calm the senses.

We breathe chaparral.

April Fool (a "haiku" cycle): V

Netflix for April.
Did I really blow this month
On Dodgers tickets?

But there are movies
I might like to see! Maybe 
The Boy will take me…

April Fool (a "haiku" cycle): IV

In like a lion.

Then wind, rain, and haunting fog

Go out like a lamb.

March played false with me.

Though these winds may disappoint,

Why should I say so?

I am brusque with you.

Wild weather inside haunts me,

Not your deserving.

April Fool (a "haiku" cycle): III

April's on the edge
of laughter, tears, and singing—
any moment now.


Sky so blue it dives
deep into your chest, expands,
leaves shimmer behind.

April Fool (a "haiku" cycle): II

Do fields look fallow

Under the early spring sun?

Still they will grow green.

Out in the garden

The roses look like dead sticks;

Bloom will come again.

April Fool (a "haiku" cycle): I

haikummings


a lass:i me ill-

imitable april dreams

exact moons in mirrors!

 i became infected with an e. e. cummings virus of some kind several years ago. the words exact, april, moons, mirrors and dreams figure prominently in his pieces. reading as much of cummings's work as i did taught me something about the usefulness of grammar, punctuation, and multiple word-meanings in expressing very challenging or intimate ideas. my piece may be read seriously or slyly, ad libitum.

Saga Paterfamiliad

   

Of Iain, Beowulfsson, in his fifteenth year

The Great Remote in unmatched splendour lay

In beauty on the crystal Table of Life.

And were it lost, t’would cause unending strife.

Its buttons glow in rainbow hue,

Magnificent Power shining through.

But lo! The great Dog, canine Beast,

With evil black tail, a sinister whip,

Hath sent the Remote on ill-fated trip!

Their grief resounds through the Great Hall

As for the Remote its denizens call.

Accusation rings through the kitchen,

War cries rebound from the walls,

Soon is sent flying the first red rubber Ball.

Screaming for blood, it rockets through the air

And collides in cruel power

With the Great Patriarch’s glower

Accusation rings through the kitchen,

War cries rebound from the walls.

Fire flames in his eyes, air fills his lungs,

And his roar, like avenging Thunder,

Seems to shatter the very ether.

Accusation rings through the kitchen,

War cries rebound from the walls.

Then the Pater, the Champion, eyes like the deadly hawk,

Espies the Great Remote upon the barren floor of rock,

Its dreadful power gleaming.

He takes it up, a priceless Gem.

The royal household gathers, awe shining in their eyes,

To see the screen of ineffable magic blaring into life

By virtue of the Great Remote.

Reclining there, the kingly Hero on his Throne of Rest,

Having thus concluded battle, chooses entertainments best.

They all sit down together, admiration in their gaze,

When their Father declares: This day has ended Dread.

Therefore and for all, it is time for bed!

Occasionally a young Bard arises unexpectedly. So it is with Iain,  14-year-old son of a most Gentle Reader. Thanks to both reader and son for sharing this humorous, and epic, poem! Please be sure to let him know what you think by voting (cool/not cool) AND leaving a comment. Thank you!

Guest Poet!

(Author: Samantha Gluck)

I made the devil himself stutter on his words

Made his words slip for a moment,

A fateful moment.

Made his beautiful smile catch --

Falter for a split second

A fallen second.

I left him, yes

Alone and

Wistful.

Gone.

I admire the form of this, the imagery, the simultaneous sense of triumph and sympathy.

Special thanks to Samantha Gluck, a.k.a. @TexasCopyWriter, @MedTopicWriter, the first half of @SamAndAmySpeak, Owner and Executive Dream Weaver, All Media Freelance, LLC,  and Editor-in-Chief, Freelance Writing Dreams. Despite her credentials as a writer, she has been shy about admitting her poetic ability. This is her second guest post (see also "I Promise," on the Guest Poets, Ghost Poets page.) I am proud that Samantha has chosen to "come out" as a poet on WaterPhoenix—SCOOP!

Songs of Motherhood

I.

Comes a dimming on the green leaves in spring;
They pause, mid-whisper.
Comes a child ’cross the green meadow of forest;
Animals scent the air, intent.
Comes a rain in the green morning of day;
Still, all things watch—
Child and cloud.

Bare feet, bare arms
Embrace the light of day;
Leviathans, weightless,
Caress honey-colored locks—
In a breath are light, air and infant one.

Then washed indoors,
A yet sweet-breathed bairn
Is lullayed to easy dreams of rainbows
By Nature tapping soft at window panes,
Asking Innocence to come again and play.

Affection As Prayer

There is a question in your hands:
though their touch on my skin
slides smooth and gentle,
I feel them tug at the hem of my heart,
         anxious, needing, hopeful.
They remind me of a little boy
who kisses the part of my arm he can reach
because of how much he wants my love,
the mercy of acceptance,
forbearance to frown at imperfections
         (the forgiveness of sin.)

Resonance

The scent of you 

  is still on my fingertips, 

  in my hair 

  It hangs around me softly, 

  like a comfortable old shirt 

  patient enough to let me wear it still. 

The image of you 

  is still on my mind, 

  in my eyes 

  it’s said a thing of beauty 

  is a joy for ever and ever and 

  (I think it was Keats) 

The touch of you 

  lingers on my skin, 

  in my heart 

  Will it hurt if you go?

  Suppose so—I suppose,
  But you’d always have been worth it. 

Track & Field: Note To Self

I repeated these ideas to myself in a variety of ways for a variety of reasons this week. It's posted in honor of the Los Angeles Marathoners running this Sunday; it would be my mantra were I running.

What do you say to yourself when you're facing high hurdles?

Take The Hint

Pearly blue above,

It’s seventy-two degrees—
Still you are inside.

Dappled shade below—
Birds sing ridiculously,
Beckon you to join them.

re: the unopened present

shake it and hear only waiting silence
open it and find it empty but for
ten words spoken into it so small
and simple a thing it takes no space at
all in a light paper box full of wish
hope long and will that i also carry
compact though uncontained

(How can a heart full of empty weigh so much?)

Paratrooper

Wake in winter dark

With dawn still an hour away—

Sunrise, on the road.

Hit the ground running—

Well, hit the ground, anyway.

It’s Monday again...

Favored Universe: How shall we live?

(after M. Arnold, with thanks to RBE)

So Love, let us be true
to one another,
not at some remove
from the great and gasping
tides of earth and time,


but here at their shores,
on the wet sand
with foam about our knees
and weeds clinging to our ankles,
swaying in our own ebb and flow.


Let us not flee
the warring madness,
but, as God and Goddess
in the midst of clashing armies,
make love so beautiful
that they are amazed to stillness
and all their hearts fill
with longing and peace.


Then, rather than only
the inescapability of conclusions,
we shall find how we begin
by choosing
again and again.

"Dover Beach," by Matthew Arnold is a classic—lovely and beyond reproach. It is also discouraging. This is for RJ and D; I hope it is not discouraging.

Go Ahead

Choose seventeen tiles, 

Grout them neatly into place.
Haiku is not hard.