vermilion cloth brushes snow gently
the wilted arm of a monk reaches
down to greet an old friend who is
curled up under a white oak wheezing
through a toothless mouth
her once golden paw feebly bats at
flowing garments begging for the
heated floors of nearby rooms
these allies have spent many winters
together in this sacred place
when spring comes both will be gone
연보라색 나비가 마비된다
자비의 순간이 언제 올거야?
a lilac butterfly becomes paralyzed
when will mercy’s moment come?
—————————————–
In Korean the words for butterfly, mercy, and paralysis rhyme. I wrote this short poem to serve as a memorization aid for those three words.
flickering candles
whisper on a weeping night
next to reticent mountains
flaxen hair shimmers
beside sparkling frosted glass
warm lips on cold porcelain
quaintly
by the seaside
Bain bides with his saintly
folks yet laments for fate denied
a bride
Ambassador Mark Lippert
with the flight crew was curt
when his beloved pet hound
kept his trip on the ground.
——————
If you are curious about the story behind this one, please refer to this link.
http://www.koogle.tv/media/news/us-ambassador-mark-lippert-tardy-over-pet-dog/
tears drip on cold brisket
in a not quite empty room
where broken toys snivel
at thoughts of sweaty arms
and flimsy sheets while wondering
where the dollhouse went
Ma doesn’t know that
I sneak out on Doko days –
those Mondays of madness when
honeyed tricks sift onto brandy
laced tea cups and pinched skin
on Skalitzer Street sooty soldiers
dust my feet in darkness
above me
peach silk
peach knees
below me
brown shoes
brown earth
above her
white light
white clouds
below her
yellow hair
yellow stars
we look on
we look on
you are lost to us
————
This is the third in a series of five poems inspired by the photography of Constantine Brassaï.
clowning
kelpies beaming
at damp damsels drowning
in a wintertide of teeming
screaming
When you’re staring up at me
I sometimes wonder who you see.
Am I the infant who you held
when the fruits of August swelled?
Or am I just an unknown she
who holds your hand and brings you tea?
In Olalla’s Grove
crimson cowards conceal themselves
under an ocean of apricot muslin.
Pruning knives have been honed.
Silent night
Unholy night
Beneath the silver popping trees of yuletide, scarlet
spotted pearls lie shivering beside frost covered hazel eyes.
Twisted twin crescent moons grimace at scores of faceless
souls strewn upon fate’s sanguine stage before perishing
within the enslaving silk of the Great Spider Above.
What I tell you three times is true.
————————
*edited after initial posting
sundry folly 