1. A kangaroo skipped in while blustering storms blew through cobwebbed windows shuddering bed frames jolting my dreams to life— losing a day somewhere over the ocean
2. A Golden Kaiser-i-Hind flew down from the highest bough and fell into my warm hands a little too soon a smooth and shiny candy eager to be eaten
3. A quiet smiling kokeshi on the bookshelf anime eyes wondering a green tea maid a soy sauce sorceress keeping secret doubts
4. A spicy Sriracha soi dog wanders a tropical island night shadow dancing in firelight before sunrise reveals floods of frangipani and a chain of jasmine blossoms
5. All of all of you broke off a piece that you keep as I keep mine like a trinket like a teacher
Shared with dVerse MTB: Cadralor 5 numbered stanzas choose 3-10 lines per stanza (keeping the stanza length throughout) each stanza stands alone as an imagist poem (just the obliquest of connections) 5th stanza pulls the 4 unrelated stanzas together into a poem of love, of yearning rhymes and syllabic meter are NOT wanted
Golden Kaiser-i-Hind is China’s national butterfly A kokeshi is a traditional Japanese doll A soi dog is a stray Thai dog (soi means lane)
Today’s Daily Stoic poem:
The Benefit Of Kindness
Nature bids us to do well by all Every moment is an opportunity In return expect nothing at all The kindness is all that needs to be
I haven’t watched many movies for a long time, let alone something quiet and contemplative. Even I have succumbed to short attention span syndrome, though I still manage to sit through a three-hour game of football. I have a million movies on hand; I should watch more.
You found something in my lithium eyes The leather belt left more than marks on your neck As you buried yourself in bourbon and stink Bonded by our death-wish You would laugh as I would cry
Your mask was much stronger than mine Mine as fragile as wet paper tissues You love with the back of your hand Waiting for your trophy wife to appear You blame the powder and I blame myself
Grab your beers and go I’ll call the ambulance myself One last hug, I beg As the apartment door slams shut I’ll call the ambulance myself
And when you called and cared again I bowed down to do anything, again You came – you came and then left Again, I called every day Until you found your reason to make me stop
I made it out alive Leaving behind the forsaken wasteland That was your life, not mine I made it out alive Leaving you behind
In a quiet, wood-panelled den, there’s a low fire crackling in the hearth. Two leather armchairs face the flames. Don and Ben sit with a small glass of amber sherry each.
You know, Ben, a lot of fireplaces…. I’ve known the best of them. But this… this one has a good heart to it.
There is a soul in a real fire. Something a manufactured flame can never learn.
Right, exactly. The phoney ones spit and hiss. No respect for the burn. This wood here… it’s loyal. Like good oak. I have a place, incredible place, where the oak burns like slow gold.
My grandfather’s house smelled of olive wood. Old, gnarled branches that remembered the sun. The scent was like smoke and memory mixed.
(Taking a slow sip.) This sherry… there’s a story in it. Some sherries are just vinegar wearing a fancy coat. This one speaks up. You can taste the years.
Spanish, I think, Don. It has a quiet voice. A nutty, whispering finish.
Whispering—I like that. Good phrase. It doesn’t shout. It just… sits there, being excellent.
A log settles, sending up a shower of embers that spin and fade.
There. That little collapse. When I was young, I believed each spark was a tiny story ending.
I like a clean end. Not a messy one. Wind, for instance, is messy. Whistling through cracks, no discipline. A fire like this… it’s all agreement. Everything burns on purpose.
Contained, but alive. There is a dignity in that.
Dignity. Sure. Look at that flame, curling up like it owns the air. And maybe it does.
It asks for nothing. Not even our attention.
(Nods, swirling the last gold in his glass.) That’s the real thing. No asking. Just being. We’ll do this again. With my oak. Oak that knows how to hold a flame.
I would like to taste that smoke.
They fall quiet, two old men wrapped in warmth and amber light, speaking of everything and nothing as the fire hums its slow, familiar hymn.
Shared with W3 prompt #179: Write 5 separate Hay(na)ku poems, each about a different aspect of love, including but not limited to: Romantic love, familial love, self-love, unrequited love, enduring/timeless love. Each poem should stand alone but together create a layered meditation on love.
After reading through others’ entries for this prompt, I was inspired to give it another try, particularly after learning more about the Greek Gods of love. Above is the new entry, below the original (titled Curriculum).
A search for corners finds one amiss this may, for a moment, mildly amuse;
She’s incomplete, though nearly whole, so the hunt continues along for a while;
The missing part may be under wraps or lying beyond the end of her ropes; Every day, a new donning of caps becomes the method by which she copes;
All your playbooks, now ripped and torn, watching in wonder, awaiting your turn; Under a bridge or to the manor born, there’s a fire inside, ready to burn; So she’s a puzzle, a partial form, Yet here she stands, resolute and firm.
