Heat still thick at noon, but late cicadas gone. Now, emerald air hums. Could you tell, then, that summer was ending when the flowers all still bloomed?
Wasting good sadness, to weep for a lost world you hated anyway. Save your tears for what illuminates and sucks dry the mystery: Being.
Today's last poem - but that isn't really true. They spread, like bamboo. Get thee behind me! I turn and see only the words on the next page.
Myrtle blooms in drifts surround gnarled trunks, and I wonder - next year, too? Sit by the river to watch the fish ripple - but mourn their freedom. A stiffer wind might descend into the valley. Will I notice it?
Some nights I hear the suggestion of voices, but none say anything. Catatonia, not sleep. Held out above the abyss of language.
Writing poetry is embarrassing. You don't think so? You're a fool. There is no one in whom sadness in endemic; tears are too common. Language speaks, not you. Perception, you say, mirrors the world. Idiot.
I'm honored to have had one of my poems from this year, a haiku called "Hardwoods," included in the annual "best of" collection at Plum Tree Tavern, an online poetry journal with a focus on nature. Plum Tree Tavern welcomes poetry focusing on specific images of physical nature, rather than the poet's judgment or opinion … Continue reading Poem in a “best of” collection
brittle cataract of grey-brown leaves twigs branches sighing; a cold wind