Symbolography in Sakura

People think it says my name.
I forget that it is there,
not seeing it the way others do-
it says Unity,
anyway.

Signs you say...
it was the pine that drew me here.
The smell, the sap was worth all the needles,
it gave me something to do
as a conifer.

The creek out back, back at home was the gate,
outside.
There were no bears there
despite the name given.

Summer rains are sad it is said,
but how a monsoon is cleansing
and out of character,
it is welcoming.

And I agree, the cherry blossoms do resemble sunset clouds,
or blushing cheeks,

“searching the wind

the hawks cry

in the shape of its beak” said John Knight

follow my calligraphy

do you know the inference

“The sparrow hops,

Along the veranda

With wet feet.” (in Spring)

A fisherman, a nun,
the snow, years past,

the pattern of the iris

and blood stain of cherries
are simply symbologies
and not to fear.

When I was a little person
my grandfather used to make me climb his rickety old ladder

to pick the bulging bunches of bing cherries
from the neighbors' tree

which hung liberally

over the fence.

Good fences make good neighbors, he would smile casually.

He also read Frost to me.

My grandmother would watch me from the kitchen window
clutching her hot black cup of coffee

staining a fake bone china cup

showing her dentures in propped open way, 

her name was Pearl.

Lately, the murders have caught my eye,

and I noticed how they prefer the pines.

Reeds and ginger,

even a shiny new Gold Medallion

are futile flora for them,
they mock my gestures in watering.

All the while, the falcon still
stalks the tiny ficus dwellers,

the cats watch back intently.

Tenacious,

I have not given up either-

even when my thoughts remain stained
with disease like Worry.

Thankfully, the summer rain washes all the blood off the driveway,
he succeeds

tiny under feathers fly low as

cherry juice runs by in a river
where I stand.

The crows cry out

my name, blaming the mockingbirds
fortune on the falcon, my fault.

It all sounds the same,
sole(less)ness, a cumulus,
one cymbal marks the end. 

Painting by Frank Nuderscher, Cherry Blossoms (1914) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Dreams casting shadows

One needn't try to demystify
precisely why the shadows lie
the way they do.
There is always an excuse.
Dare not to ask the old salt and pepper nurse
how she came to be the sole caretaker
of crows
and a single cockatoo
every morning, every single mourning,
she knows
they are there for her too.
The brown boy that is now
a milk chocolate man
still slices cold cuts and fresh white bread
at the local sandwich shop and a decade later
still says 'Hi'-
don't ask me why
the police roll by
and I am reminded, it is just a job.
Do you remember that riddle
about what is black and white-
I've read too much...
Speculation bleeds ink.
I think
I will never ask
why my dreams are now in vivid color.



Painting titled Cloud Shadows (1890) by Winslow Homer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The weight of the world

My pockets are empty, no rocks for my swim today
I am armed still with each of these quartered limbs

The rope swing resembles a gnoose, or a snake
the mongoose was always me, miss identified

Eucalyptus tendrils squeeze out mentholated breezes
calling the monarchs, two come to court, tagging up in streamers

Perched in the sappy pines a murderous row becomes a mob,
volume and black plagues grow from the chain mail gang

Humming while hovering over a well, the nectar inebriates
bird and bee still in recovery, stalling in their stupor mid-air

The drum roll of wind, corralling the dead, noting the tenor of leaves
swirling in symphonic disharmony, sloughing and buffing scales

Laser beams between tall pillars scorching the dirt, releasing the
essence, crushing the spice revives, in particulates burnt alive

The serenity of the lakeside: The tranquility of Tantalus
eternally reaching, mute preaching, still teaching all of us.



Image credit:By Extemporalist (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.