Belief quite stout over years,
Spinning through dark fields of time.
Shelter from recondite spheres,
Opaque glass o’er minefields’ rime;
Before you take faith to bed,
Cut off its foul, wretched head.
Tag Archives: writing
Cinquain/LXXII
wizards
cloaked in ermine
course calmly through blizzards,
casting enchanted spells within
the din
Currents
How many times
have I lain listlessly
in my own shadow
replaying weathered
and changeless
memories instead
of seeking the
unknown and
possibly joy-filled
passages that
exist beyond this
window? Tides
rarely change for
men who do not
know the Sun.
Household Songs: IV
A chubby, bronzed thumb plucks
needless tears from
a flushed face, discarding them quickly onto
the ground.
Commanded to supper, he gallops
past muted white
bells as April’s fleeting sweetness runs down
his chin.
Over the Bridge
From dense woodland to broad steppes, we trekked
with babes on our backs and hope at
our heels, seeking solace in
an age of profound change,
when we bid farewell
to distant kin
and forged a
friendless
path.
Far From the Blazing Stars
Beneath a buzzing vault of viper skins,
I slither through the belly of a lake,
where my lean lower limbs morph into fins.
By Suijin’s deep grace, I swiftly make
my way past ruthless currents and begin
to transform into an enchanted snake.
It seems my life on land is over now.
I never shall return – to that I vow.
———————-
Suijin is the Shinto god of water in Japan. This was written in Ottava rima form.
Household Songs: XXX
Tongues of the beloved hunger
for delusive miracles
from a holy intersection of mahogany and
lacerated resin.
His presence in the doorway,
like a petticoat
parted by a wanton wind, flutters nigh
sallow feet.
Household Songs: I
A silk blouse torn from
convulsing, sunburnt hands
falls to the floor in a torrent
of dysphoria.
Weep not for the bodies
who float over
floorboards like docile dust balls going to
their graves.
The Road to Home
Jammed securely into this chamber–three
by five–of numberless numbers, dripping
like Inga in August, my flushed ears listen
to the roar of reticence that permeates
our hive of heavy bodies.
Eyes oscillate between clocks and computers
as fingers flutter and shoulders shake beside
document drenched desks.
At five o’clock, smiles spread thinly over our
flagging faces, even though, for us, the road
to home leads nowhere.
:::dinner deliberations:::
steam rises swiftly
from a metal colander
filled with moist soba,
echoing the unspoken
grievances of yesterday
sundry folly 