only, maybe, every
I think of how
u s e d t o p l a y t h e p i a n o
as the sun
only, maybe, every
I think of how
u s e d t o p l a y t h e p i a n o
as the sun
in raindrops of time
A flower of a smile reaching deep
A memory of fish and chips trees wrapped in newspaper leaves
The curves in the sand dunes
the waves when you bathe
And your coffee on my lips, when you walk away again
For beauty is the sky, the goodbye, the flame in a story we let melt.
kiss from black widow
jungle begins to spin
Visit my main blog http://gypsy-in-you.blogspot.fi/
lips like that won’t shatter glass
lips like that will get stuck to your ass
slipping and sliding down a mine
tumbling and wondering if you’ll stop this time
serve me pennies serve me pills
serve me a manner of different ills
hide me safely in the dark
cushion me with your glossy smile
a luxuriant version of a holy kiss
I’ve really come to say
is as from today
your childhood’s closed
all your memories
will be locked up
melting on my tongue
a devil’s brew never to return
so you wasted the most precious in you
the freshest, flashest, the best of you
and your lips will never shatter the glass
and all the bottles are still there
and the pills with no name
hidden in your underwear
of all things to lose
and remember of none
youth seems the one
that hurts the most
for devil you came
in such a good disguise
with your enchanting
s m i l e
“I will teach you all my secrets, all my wisdom I will give to you. I will teach you Tengriism and shamanism.”
watch the eagle
Hey Ma, and Pa
Thanks for bringing me up understanding the pain of the belt and hand. I learnt from that. And forcing me away from the only girl who understood me. Hell you told me I sinned so often that I am sin.
Guess that’s why I got pa’s guns. Loaded. Don’t worry. I’ll only start shooting if you call, or if the principal or anyone comes running into the class, cause it’ll mean you read this goodbye note – or if the biology teacher says anything that reminds me of me. We’re dissecting rats today, so…
Anyway. See you in hell.
Jeremiah, your ex-son.
FF run by Rochelle Wisoff.Fields – thankyou – photo prompt by Jennifer Pendergast
Try a weekly Haibun writing challenge! Click here http://www.gunns-cabinfever.pw/l298go-ha298bun#.U4WnE3KSzaU
He observed the frontier; his frontier, with scanning eyes, tired gloves holding the reins, but a heart still burning a fire of pride. With his back arched straight, muscles taut, he turned his horse gently. Just then he thought he heard a sound, and hand on saddle, twisted and glanced across into the mist. Not a troublesome sound. Not a clearly definable sound, more of a ‘twang!’ and a slight ‘woosh!’ And only once, no more. He relaxed. The arrow sped across the prairie, grass blades neatly carved in split seconds by glinting tip, before thudding, hard, into his chest.
This story is 99W exactly.
Thanks to Rochelle! Picture this week by Erin Leary
in a charming old bistrot
in the time it took to taste my tea
whirl the leaves
a newspaper in front of me
and find out
Ghandi’s son raped his eight
year old girl
its fashionable to not talk about such things
at a restaurant with such fine trimmings
such richness of discussion
coy eye blinks, a-flutter above tilted cup
but I saw his letter to his son
where he talked about what horror had been done
and the pain of an eight year old daughter
so in the time it took
to put down my tea
my faith in the world dissolved around me
and my sympathy for various vagrancies
I became a murderer in my heart
and passed you the milk
I ordered you a cupcake
and pondered on fate
for if Ghandi’s son can commit such a murder
then anyone can do asunder to another
and most likely will
As Chevrefeuille says, the goal of this CD-Distillation is to “distil” a haiku from the long-poem in this case “In Flanders Fields”. It’s a challenge of course, but even the classical haiku-poets used parts of other poems in their haiku … so it’s a classic way of writing haiku to distil haiku from a long poem. Why don’t you join in, dear reader, if you haven’t yet! http://chevrefeuillescarpediem.blogspot.fi/
In Flanders Field
by John McCrae
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
on the crosses sit the birds
that watch over the fallen of Flanders
from where the poppies grow
reaches me deep from the past
life was hard and free
An ambiguous haiku of mine, coming from the tale of Sedna, Queen of the Underworld, on Chèvrefeuille’s Carpe Diem Haiku challenge blog here.
let the ravens come
let them smile as they pick the flesh
from the battlefield
whisper to you?
image courtesy of Irina Serban
like a flapjack bought at a highway store
undressed from plastic on a flat top
and ejected at a reststop
I found freedom to cruise
crushed by second hand truckers on table tops
numbed by the candy I had to suck
leftover from someone’s pockets
I had to choose
barefoot on route 66
if I make it to the west coast
before 5 o’clock
you can have my ass
San Fransisco’s Golden Gate
on the back of a Harley Davidson
or maybe it was all a dream
flushed down a toilet at the rest stop
another coffee at the counter
another evening wasted almost masturbated
in this small town that’s just a dot
on a map at an old egg yoke pitstop
it is not the forest
but the memory of the forest
that inspires me
“…..And remember, just don’t smile
Change your shirt, ’cause tonight we got style…”
What pathos, the epitome of delusion. ‘Meeting Across The River,’ by Bruce Springsteen is the Great American novel, and a must as accompaniment to Kerouac’s haiku below. When you listen , click here to read the lyrics, simply…wonderful.
So the task today set by Chevrefeuille at Carpe Diem is to use the haiku below by Kerouac to spur one to write one in similar tone, mood and spirit.
Neons, Chinese restaurants
coming on -
Girls come by shades
This is a haiku from a man who has been there. I can imagine the slow strobe effect of the neon lights painting the different women with different colours as they drift into the bar from the street. It brings to mind one of my favourite places when I lived in Bahrain, the Seashell Hotel, owned by the Bahraini prime minister, and in fact a brothel. The women who worked there were from Thailand, the bar staff from the Philippines and the waitresses from Ethiopia. I worked in Saudi Arabia at the time but came across the causeway most nights, driving on a road I have learnt is statistically the most dangerous in the world. We saw it all, I mean all on that road. I used to dress as an Uzbek in those days, with a ornate skull cap, as the terrorists were out and about in Saudi Arabia, dressing up as police and setting up roadblocks to find westerners. But I trusted the Saudis, implicitly, and knew if they ever heard of any danger they would discreetly tell me.
My Texan colleague next to me when I drove used to dress as a Saudi, until our Saudi friends told us there was no way he could be mistaken for a Saudi, even from a distance sitting in a car. For a Texan he was quite deadpan, and after a dangerous morning drive in the mist, which needless to say caused its fair share of accidents, we were driving back at high speed as one did. The highway arched around a long corner.
“Watch the dead guy,” he said evenly, as we came around the bend in the four lane highway.
“Yeah,” I said.
An accident had just happened, and someone had been ejected from one of the cars. We raced by, on to the border, not blinking an eyelid, the Texan drifting back to sleep. Those were the days.
At the Seashell I would smile with the charming hard-working, underpaid Ethiopian waitresses and wait for the woman I shared a flat with, Pray Wa, to finish working, then would cook her breakfast before falling asleep.
“How many more breakfasts ’till I get a free night?” I would laugh from the kitchen.
“Many, many more,” she would shout back in an ongoing joke that would shock friends and relatives.
neon lights change colour
her face goes red, blue, then yellow
-inside she stays the same
“And now ladies and gentlemen, our next item, ‘A vessel,‘ painted by I. M. Juoekin. Who’ll start at five hundred pounds, anyone?”
“That’s a feckin’ shoppin’ cart mate!” the Australian next to me said, his accint almost getting the better of him.
“Are you making a bid, sir?” came the frosty voice back from the podium.
Too feckin right I am, ten pounds, ye pommie baasterd!” the Australian said, loudly.
“If you’d looked carefully, sir,” said Frosty, “you’dve seen a hand with paintbrush sticking up from the sand painting the cart.”
“Hand, whose hand?” sneered Aussie.
“The painter’s, sir.”
“Nobody knows. He was never seen again.”
For Friday Fictioneers
indomitably run by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields – photo B W Beacham
The topic today is ‘stone.’ For me that brings back a few seconds from active days, and is just the right post to dedicate to Jimi Hendrix, and here’s why; but first, we need the lights,sound and atmosphere of his magestral Like a Rolling Stone.
Man did he influence my young days. When we went climbing in Chamonix on rock faces throughout the valley, it was his music blasting from the stereo strategically placed at the bottom of the rock.
And one day it sorta all came together. How could I ever forget when I was king, just for a smattering of seconds? I was there, grappling with the rock face, three points of contact with the rock, and reaching up for a hold, a crack in the rock to get my fingers through, as that great song was blasting up from below, and then suddenly it happened: I lost interest in gravity, so in tune was I with my surroundings, and I felt anything was possible, that no conscious force was needed to stay against the rock, and no force was pulling my weight downwards.
I carried on, slowly understanding what subconscious meditation might mean, that such meditation absolutely must involve movement, nature and a challenge to face. At that moment, when all is aligned, you can roll up a mountain.
scrambling up the rockface
I never knew I’d write a haiku
about that haiku moment
Jen at Blog It Or Lose It has introduced us to a new form, the Tanaga. Jen says that:
“Some sources call the Tanaga a “Filipino Haiku”, but that isn’t quite accurate. Like an English haiku, the Tanaga counts syllables. Unlike the haiku, the pattern is four lines of 7 syllables each (7-7-7-7).
The biggest difference is that the Tanaga rhymes; it has a pattern of AABB. In addition, ancient Tanagas were handed down through oral history and contain advice.”
In addition to Tanaga, she provided a thought-inspiring tale. I shall have to do the same, and provide you here a retold, by me, tale of the Diving Woman of Oiso Bay, Japan!
A certain knight by the name of Takadai Jiro became ill in the town of Kamakura, where he had been on duty, and was advised to spend the hot month of August at Oiso, to give himself perfect rest, peace, and quietness.
Having obtained permission to do this, Takadai Jiro lost settled himself down in a small inn which faced the sea. As soon as he had secured his room he threw off his clothes and went down to bathe. Takadai was a good swimmer, and plunged into the sea without fear, going out for nearly half-a-mile. There, however, misfortune overtook him. He was seized with a violent cramp and began to sink. A fishing-boat sculled by a man with his diving-girl daughter happened to see him and went to the rescue.
The girl jumped overboard and swam to the spot where he had disappeared, and, having dived deep, brought him to the surface, holding him there until the boat came up, when by the united efforts of herself and her father Takadai was hauled on board.
Before they had reached the shore, Takadai saw that his saviour was a beautiful ama (diving-girl). Such beauty he had never seen. Takadai was in love with his brave saviour before the boat had grounded on the pebbly beach. Determined in some way to repay the kindness he had received, Takadai helped to haul their boat up the steep beach and then to carry their fish and nets to their little thatched cottage, where he thanked the girl for her noble and gallant act in saving him, and congratulated her father on the possession of such a daughter. Having done this, he returned to his inn.
From that time on the soul of Takadai knew no peace. Love of the maddest kind was on him. There was no sleep for him at night, for he saw nothing but the face of the beautiful diving-girl, whose name (he had ascertained) was Kinu. Try as he might, he could not for a moment put her out of his mind. In the daytime it was worse, for O Kinu was not to be seen, being out at sea with her father, diving for the haliotis shell and others; and it was generally the dusk of evening before she returned, and then, in the dim light, he could not see her.
At last his love grew so great that he could endure it no longer. He felt that at all events it would be a relief to declare it. So he took his most confidential servant into the secret, and despatched him with a letter to the fisherman’s cottage. O Kinu San did not even write an answer, but told the old servant to thank his master in her behalf for his letter and his proposal of marriage. ‘Tell him also,’ said she, ‘that no good could come of a union between one of so high a birth as he and one so lowly as I.
‘I will wait a day or two,’ thought Takadai. ‘Now that Kinu knows of my love, she may think of me, and so become anxious to see me. I will keep out of the way. Perhaps then she will be as anxious to see me as I am to see her.’
Takadai kept to his own room for the next three days, believing in his heart that O Kinu must be pining for him. On the evening of the fourth day he wrote another letter to O Kinu, more full of love than the first, despatched his old servant, and waited patiently for the answer.
When O Kinu was handed the letter she laughed and said: ‘Truly, old man, you appear to me very funny, bringing me letters. This is the second in four days, and never until four days ago have I had a letter addressed to me in my life. It is difficult for me to understand. If you gave my message to your master correctly he could not fail to know that I could not marry him. His position in life is far too high. Is your master quite right in his head?’
‘Yes: except for the love of you, my young master is quite right in his head; but since he has seen you he talks and thinks of nothing but you, until even I have got quite tired of it, and earnestly pray to Kwannon daily that the weather may get cool, so that we may return to our duties at Kamakura. For three full days have I had to sit in the inn listening to my young master’s poems about your beauty and his love. Oh, do marry him, so that we shall all be happy and go out fishing every day and waste no more of this unusual holiday.’
‘You are a selfish old man,’ answered O Kinu. ‘Would you that I married to satisfy your master’s love and your desire for fishing? I have told you to tell your master that I will not marry him, because we could not, in our different ranks of life, become happy. Go and repeat that answer.’
Poor Takadai! This time he was distressed, for the girl had even refused to meet him. What was he to do? He wrote one more imploring letter, and also spoke to O Kinu’s father; but the father said, ‘Sir, my daughter is all I have to love in the world: I cannot influence her in such a thing as her love. Moreover, all our diving-girls are strong in mind as well as in body, for constant danger strengthens their nerves: they are not like the weak farmers’ girls.
Takadai’s heart was broken. There was nothing more that he could say and nothing more that he could do. Bowing low, he left the fisherman and retired forthwith to his room in the inn, much to the consternation of his servant. Takadai that evening wrote a last note to Kinu, and as soon as the villagers of Oiso were asleep he arose and went to the cottage, slipping the note under the door. Then he went to the beach, and, after tying a large stone to a rope and to his neck, he got into a boat and rowed himself about a hundred yards from shore, where he took the stone in his arms and jumped overboard.
Next morning O Kinu was shocked to read in the note that Jiro Takadai was to kill himself for love of her. She rushed down to the beach, but could see only an empty fishing-boat some three or four hundred yards from shore, to which she swam. There she found Takadai’s tobacco box and his juro (medicine box). She began to dive, and was not long before she found the body, which she brought to the surface, after some trouble on account of the weight of the stone which the arms rigidly grasped. O Kinu took the body back to shore, where she found Takadai’s old servant wringing his hands in grief.
The body was taken back to Kamakura, where it was buried. O Kinu was sufficiently touched to vow that she would never marry any one. True, she had not loved Takadai; but he had loved, and had died for her. If she married, his spirit would not rest in peace.
No sooner had O Kinu mentally undertaken this generous course than a strange thing came to pass.
Sea-gulls, which were especially uncommon in Oiso Bay, began to swarm into it; they settled over the exact spot where Takadai had drowned himself. Fishermen thought it extraordinary; but Kinu knew well enough that the spirit of Takadai must have passed into the gulls, and for it she prayed regularly at the temple, and out of her small savings built a little tomb sacred to the memory of Takadai Jiro.
Kinu died by drowning in a severe typhoon some nine years later than Takadai; and from that day the sea-gulls disappeared.
the way to a woman’s heart
is not the flight of a dart
but more of a labyrinth
of completely unknown length
He died in Afghanistan.
I was always the wild one, but you know what they say about opposites attract. He used to read me beautiful poetry. I used to shout slogans for our cause. He bailed me out of jail. I’d told him we deserved a bailing out party.
“Your pompous patriach and his anti feminist flunky are gone for two days!” I told him.
Probably my idea to put toothpaste in the ice cream too, and then to have the ice cream fight.”That’s the last straw!” his mother had shouted, arriving home. “The military for you, son!” said his father. Wrong war, you bastard.
For FF 100W stories – run admirably by Rochelle picture by the incomparable Renee – extra picture of ”narrator” taken of a FEMEN activist for women’s rights, on location, the only ‘Feminista’ group I wholeheartedly support.
three cherry blossoms
barely cover your modesty
ah! what joy in spring!
A cloud of poison
Didn’t hide the sun
Invisible to us
But not our organs
Twenty eight years ago today
The cloud came our way
They called it a nuclear disaster
When an explosion rocked the reactor
And these days the lichen is still poisoned
And years of babies stillborn
Figures hard to fathom
Cause governments still hide them
The Finnish government changed criteria for deformations
The Belorussian one reminds us of 3 million starved under Stalin
The Russian government is just Putin
But people are still dying
Thousands of children sick for all their lives
Living in institutions
As a result of that explosion
In reactor four in Ukraine
The largest amount of radioactivity ever released
But still thousands of times less
Than the bomb tests
In the Pacific Ocean….
The Chernobyl nuclear power disaster that contributed to the end of the Soviet Union is twenty seven million tears old today….