The Poet (Haiku)

Why do you poem?

An attempt to word wisely

while I understand.

Image by James Sant [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons (Enigma).

Glimmering See

There is something I need to say but I simply cannot seem to do more than cross out not the way to say, how to phrase a blind beacon, a muted murmur translated subject, object
to say exactly
everything together
by letters as one
Force what it is, stab at it with a pen, draw it out like language, hone out the sharpest point, push it forward like blowing your nose, or even better sneeze it
when it feels like sex
you will know you nailed it
and that is worth it
freely, better than giving up or saying shoulda, or mistaking desire for a dream and doing what one shoulda-for some one else's cause, affecting none, be cause was lost on you, charitable lending of your ear listens to the echo for future gains of generations, all ways
that is your legacy
shining star in flight
will fall silently
orchestrated in a way that you listen to every wrinkle in time waiting for your name, miss taken with the world, waiting on a line.



Image by Mikalojus Konstantinas Čiurlionis (1875-1911) SILENCE [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Poem form Haibun experiment. 

Under the see

Here, you in the middle.

Music in dancing smoke.

Dense vaporous heat wrapped in red

ripples and shards carry and throw

light bent, fractured panes

strewn before open eyes

widely receptive, a hungry glint

absorbing the whole shaft.

Do not speak of experience

like goosebumps and coincidence,

deja vu and waking dreams worn

on this path. You picked the way

reflected back in pouring pail eyes to

spinning sapphire seas stuck inside your inertial feeling.

You cannot tell

of the way the moon

holds onto you in the crook

of its long arm showing you more.

Or how the sun

seduces you under its warm endless well

of desire to strip you down, and suck you up.

Do not try to repeat what was implied

in the language

of hummingbirds that hover,

of cats that crowd around you,

of swaddled babes enrapt,

of elderly enduring and shaking

off your ghosts.

You stood under all too well. Father time and Mother earth,

hospitable surrogates serving

senseless, undecipherable epiphanies.

You see.

Image of painting by By William Savage Cooper, Phantasy c.1896 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.