About my love life

Romance is learning

how to give yourself flowers

when you most need them.

Painting by De Scott Evans (1847-1898), in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

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.

Chestnuts roasting

Rolling ares are drumrolls for seduction.
Golden brown skin is warm and toasty to the touch
Purple raven onyx hair spills thick and rich as oil.
Blonde, plain as rolling straw fields under crushed velvet against the cornflower sky,
steel blue machine and John Deere make carbon copies of Barbies.
Talking with the hands demonstrates tactile prowess, in a squint of meaning words wont work,
and yes, I think Russians have the best lips,
I would hazard to guess this-unless I can be proven wrong.
Since making softer and warmer with hard and cold can be concisely done quite malleably, the other way wont work the same.
Along with heat sinking glares and hidden thoughts that need not originate from a family tree, they can be a new seed.
Indeed, to me, exuberant ells and excessive tees can be both
quite love-ly
and always welcome to a poor peasant, such as native to nowhere me
seeking some taste
in a word.


Painting by Sergey Vasilyevich Ivanov, Foreigners arrival to Moscow (1901) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sacrificial She

Demands are shrill
lilt a tone that cuts the fleshy ear
and worse as a pseudo nurse
I fear-in trembling-today
I am wilted even further away.
Lillies in the valley lean toward the rain,
the pain-
my dear-
I dare to note how sap drains slow,
like the frozen pulse-amber loves her prize,
and time flies while doing for others
sweet things softly, conjuring energy,
time in disguise as your own
with never ceasing chores
that occupy us so slyly
while we are looking down
oblivious
to others
looking up to us.
It is the way we listen
when Justice is served
evenhandedly.



Painting by By Hatherell, William, The Last Message (1918) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Isn't that touching

Felt again-
it will never go away.

Now we know. And must go on
even more
This is just as important

we hope

everytime more
can be enough
for now
-waiting-

We live
all the while we say we feel
Alive

sometimes, like memory
of morning sun in autumn light
cast down on dry dirt
heating up
the surface
even more than before
the first
time

And Time
again

open to the sense of it.



Painting by Alexei Harlamov (1840-1925), Portrait of a young girl, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

@Odds, Evenso

What is it called when you know someone
upon eyes connecting directly with another
and you know they are seeing your naked soul
by the expression reflected back and both are admiring
the other
more than the self that is or could be
in side

by serendipity we seek
more than my or by our self
that makes one more than
alone-
that makes
connections by proximity
and grounds the charge between that face
and this spirit, these hands and that touch
and those that keep us enigmatic and static-
charged indivisibly

For see
exactly whom we ought to be-
come
& let go
of percipience
and wonder-
ment, for a time.

What is it considered when you have not traveled far and w i d e
but have sped through paper pages and flew limitless miles,
by red-eye, crossed enemy lines,
considered long and hard about first hand
experiences such as touching the spine that tingles,
or the same finger prints
as others
stained invisibly
soiled likewise, trespassed and told with ownership by good deed

If we need to know
to spread the word, a story, a life like ours is still
being-born-
threaded and indebted, (as I was)
just passing through when you weren't here
-yet
a note is always left for those who look
be-
low
the sure face.

Like metaphor
or mystery-

What happens when everything turns brown and holds onto its water weight
as proud as the iron anchor,
to linger a little before
breaking down
spread thin enough to cover the whole
sky
adding rain for self-reflection on white noise days
when echoes are licked up and reds are too strong
for floating in greyscale
when shades are all we needed
for answers acidic enough

for shelter
for honor
for comfort
for speech-less ways we see, never meant
the same again
precisely as it were.




Painting By English: Christen Dalsgaard (1824-10-30/1907-02-11) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

This Kind (Haiku)

Being
        Nice is like
Hospitality for All
Devil(s)-
               bed is made.




Source unnamed, interior of brothel in Italy 1945 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.