the bamboo hut spring 2015thebamboohut.weebly.com/uploads/1/4/2/1/14210066/tbhspring15.pdfthe bamboo...

The Bamboo Hut

Spring

2015

Journal of English Language Tanshi

The Bamboo Hut Spring 2015

The Bamboo Hut

Spring 2015

Journal of Contemporary Tanshi

© 2015

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All rights reserved No part of this journal may be reproduced in any form without the permission of the publisher.


Editorial Note

Welcome to the Spring 2015 issue of The Bamboo Hut featuring the tanshi of about 40 poets from across the globe.In this issue you can read poems covering nature, human emotions, relationships, introspection and observation. Look out too for some responsive tanshi including 2 responsive dodoitsu written by myself and Matsukaze as well as a very thought provoking collaboration between Robert Epstein and Joy McCall.Matsukaze, who enjoys pushing the boundaries of short form poetry, has also included in this issue a tanka rensaku called “Urban Existance” which is well worth a read.

Thanks to contributors old and new.

Happy reading !!

Steve Wilkinson, editor

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Steve

Typewritten text

Tanshi

Steve

Typewritten text

TANSHI


Dave Read

a crow fliesacross the New Year'sskyI remind myselfI don't believe in omens

like a coyotein the citysometimesnature creepsinto my poems

in the distancea motorcycleand my dreamsof lifeon the road

my fatherin the mirroreven nowhe likes tosurprise me

embracingme a momentthe rivernow flowingdownstream

risinginto the greatblue skyanother poemabout a heron

joiningthe stars in deathhe continuesto keephis distance

1


Caroline Skanne

a clatteringof jackdaws takes tothe skyat times I feel overwhelmedby the simplest things

cloud whispers...smudged white onbluemy breath meltsinto your sun

moonbeamscombed throughyour lashesthese moments we stealaway from the world

the robinat his usual spotI pretendyou will always be therewaiting for me too

weburied youtodaypure white blossomsfill my heart

2


Carole Johnston

walkingNatagiri PassfollowingBasho’s footseps likeriding Kerouac’s train

sycamoreinked white on rust hillsgreen pinehieroglyphs across bare treesas we travel home

in that placewhere river meets skydeep voicessing a blue/green songmy heart longs to listen

I give hera copy of "White Pine"by Oliverhoping she'll rememberthe person she used to be

rememberingthat November skystill stunnedby blueness deepin the well of myself

snowdrop rosarychills my burning fingersa crystal dawnwinter monasterymoments freeze in time

3


Radka Mindova

the child’s notebookhere he’s eaten a sweethere he’s criedin two empty sheetshis whole life

Amoz Tan

victims cry in fearof violent attackslaying aside all comfortsthe world respondswith helping hands

Shloka Shankar

brushinga spider awayI shudderat the thoughtlessside of me

I place youlike an unread bookon the shelfof my heart..summer love

remindingmyself to let go...the bouldergrows heavierover the years

4


Diana Teneva

slice of lemonin my cup of tea …your wordsnot easyto be swallowed

snowdrops meltingon the windowpanethe stars beyondthe Milky Waywhisper your name

a mirrorin the mirror –my younger selflooking at her futureeye pouches

Mal Keeble

watercolour skyendless strokesacross the canvasremembering I gavemy brushes away

her curled toescatch the sunthe water murkier todaypromises only the pool mancan keep

paying formy therapy sessionI make anotherhaircut appointmentnext month

5


Michael Seese

he scribbled his nameacross her paper heartin inkthen realizedhe should have used a pencil

I paint in a heavy colorand praythe walls will bearthe weightbetter than I

her diamond eyesleave another brilliant cutin a roughyet preciousheart

she looks at meas if I'm transparentI wonder if my death insideis really that apparent

he seeks a new maskto replace the onewhich fractured whenhe daredto smile

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Maya Lyubenova

withered leaveson the fig treein that faded photoI retouchgrandma’s fingers

under the bridgea flower wreathon dark watereach petal – a wisheach blossom – a dream

maple leafin the windlike a small handtrying to holdto the grass

Izeta Radetinac

this girl's haira ripe bunch of wheattied by the reapera field without moonlightin a sweet smell of the lavender

warbling of the birdsscatters the fog in the forestthe sun creeps ina shepherd by the brook singthe song about river

under our eavesthe pigeons cooing - grandchildrenrun through the housesuch a fruitful spring I haveand the tree on the glade

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Pat Geyer

I hearthe junco song...his trillin harmony withthe path of snow

lemon mintyour scent tells meto lift oneto the breeze...a butterfly rides the wind

enticing callof the white stag...tonightwe departtogether

cat tailI wish we could talk...we caneven if we onlyscratch the surface

sometimesthis sickeningnoise...a plagueof grackles

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Traci Siler

around every cornerblurred linesthese fadingmemoriesof who I am

dreaming poetryI wakein afever pitchsummer

revisitingold woundshow deepthese scarsmust have been

bedside tablelittered with pharmaceutical landminesbut I am alreadybleeding out

I am only partially consciousthis thin line betweenpleasure and painwhere I begfor drowning

photo to poempoem to paintingbleeding all I aminto the confinesof canvas

burn mejust aroundthe edgesI need to knowI'm still alive

life longlove letterthat linehe kissesin my palm

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Aruna Rao

spring windcurving the fishing lineand Busonthe other way

maybe I'm happythat we never clicked picturesbeing so transitoryperhaps makes it more realmore real

in your longinghe showed me a field of spicesto soothe menow when you kiss mewhy am I still longing?

you walkback and forth, back and forthlike an hourglassbecoming yinbecoming yang

Brigitte Pellat

The wall is barefor an art galleryabout to take form—on the artworks to comea scent of wisteria

My cat in the garagelying on the saddlebagsof my daddy’s bikea favorite placehis round eyes look at me

8 o’clock the fogswallows up the horizongrisaille backgroundin white and pink facing mea dawning apricot tree

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Ed Bremson

a sudden storm –the groundas far as the eye can seecoveredwith white hail

standingin the window looking outfeeling the cool,unspeakably sweet windblowing in

moonlight reflectedas if by mirrorsfrom the broadfleshy leavesof the prickly-pear

milk-bushes on the plaintouched by a weirdalmost oppressive beautyin the white lightfrom the full African moon

Ramesh Anand

the skydrops into a bright starif onlyI could stopfrom dwelling on the past

a flock of parrotsreturn into the woodsafter river sunsetan eagle and I crossthe mountains

holding toysin our hands, we watch …at the bus stopfather hands the faresto mother and walks back home

the days darkenof winter depressionif onlyI could stop holdingonto his empty love

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Payal A Agarwal

fluffy snowflakesdrifting down the raven skycaressing my wrinkled facelike a lovers' touchall in my dream

breezy Sundaystanding on the edge of the lakefeeding white pigeonsI meet a new mein gushing water...

mid afternoonsitting on a rusted benchhearing cries of seagullsand crashing of wavesI dread meeting her

in the atticI spot an old trunkfull of thirty years junksuddenly I glow like pearlseeing my wedding gown

Archana Kapoor Nagpal

another timewrapped in this moonlightmy ancestral home ...childhood memories swingin a spider's hammock

these raindropsone by one slides downthe blades of grass ...again his hands caressthrough my tresses

chimessurrounds the silencethis Christmas night ...next to every bedhangs a stocking

from allsides of Himalayan valleythese tinkling bells ...how far your thoughtstravel in my mind

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Maureen Sudlow

Still morningbefore the sun slides downthe gum treeseach trembling leafoutlined

cloud watchingmeans lifting my eyesabove the mundanenoticingthe eternal

wood pigeondrinking from an old plant potsummer droughtpainting the paddocksin burnt sienna

bleak dayon the riverat the picnic tablean old maneats his sandwiches

sea and skythe ancient pathwayof whale songtall shipsat journey’s end

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Robyn Cairns

night owl babywhen all were asleepyou were on the beach with us--chasing the mooninto the sea

scent of surfthrough car windowsour dreams of youthwhere waveswere wildest

magpie--he watches meand I watch himthe wind blows strongbetween us

seventies summersrambling rock poolswith sea anemones and abalonewe scuttled like crabsacross wet sand

eyelashesheavy with rain--bare riding legs shinyshe spun her wheelsthrough puddles around town

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Natalia L Rudychev

mindful of OrpheusI keep moving forwardmy heart is enoughto never loose sightof you

the thoughtthat godis godlessunveilslove

somewheredeep in my bluewhale soulthere is a rainbowwaiting for your sun

the water liliesfill in for the starsin the overcastexpansionof the mirrored skies

waitingfor the moonthe suntries onnew clouds

a flowerleaps into the skyuntil it scattersto becomeanother flower

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Debbie Strange

the aromaof pungent Persian starstransports meto a caravanseraiin the moonlit desert

how stillthis numinous dawnwe kneelwatching a muskrat's breathbubbling under thin ice

a hapless boattrampled by water kelpiesall souls lostso many widows waitingupon every wild shore

spring arrivesone small dropletat a timethe way everythingtakes root in earth

that nighta lightning ball bouncedthrough the housescorching mother's linensand a little girl's dreams

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Lavana Kray

the full moonjust outof swaddling cloud -a pregnant woman entersthe calm sea

old lettersturnedinto confetti -rehashingmy bio sketch

crossinga cherry blossom linedstreet ...I and a few petalson a stretcher

the same man comesat the same cafe tablefor days...two gulls calleach other

roll of thunder-a dandelion fluffleapt in the roomas if my girlwere here

when the sun sinks lowthe shadowof the church steeplelengthens in the room -chemo ward

automatic mower -barleypoppieslark nestturned into hay bales

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Chen ou-Liu

my poemwith an overlayof opinionsin winter sunlighta half-peeled onion

this anxietyabout getting publishedlands on mewith a thud...snow falling on snow

the ticking clockgets louder and louder...awake to seean old man in the mirrorwho dreams away his life

this snowy nightkeeps fetching firefliesto my third eye...writing poetry to keep themin the glass jar of my youth

I yell out,"Death, stop following melike a stray dog..."waking aloneto first winter light

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Tim Gardiner

a tinge of redon the skylinethe day’s embers –across the marshlonely lights glow

watching greenseagrass ribbonscaressed by tides –we wonder whenlove will drift away

by clay cliffsthe wind wipesa tear from my eye –another summergone too soon

an old treelays prostrateon the shingle –such isolationis hard won

the hunched overFerris wheel operatorwhistles a tune –in winter sleet and snowhis emptiness returns

a gaggle of geesestuds the samphire shoreof a secluded bay –lovers’ footprintssoon filled by the tide

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Djurdja Vukelic Rozic

shiny eyesof a one legged fishermanon the strand benchjust looking at the sea through the drying nets

lone magnoliaunder it scattered petalsof the red vinea couple of turtledovessilent on the wire

thundering wheelsof a night train amidst dreamsin warmth and peaceeach passenger towards his ownearthly destination

let’s not lit the lightslet the dusk swallow the pastborn among the starslet our hut be the Big Dipperjust tonight, just for a while

daydreamingin the scent of sweet Ericaunder the starry skymy longing inviting youin the murmur of the sea

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Jane Dougherty

We stare into a futureobscured by dark clouds.Perhaps beyond is sunlightwhere the gulls flyover the unseen edge.

Will you stay? I askedand the silence fella pebble droppedinto the endless depthsof a cold pool.

I dream a worldand in the centre I set a rose tree,in the tree a blackbird,in his throat a song,and the song he sings is for you.

I take my sorrows to the seaand let the touchof the salt breezesoothe the furrowsfrom my wrinkled heart.

Footsteps in the frostglitter in the starlight,the only beautyin the nightof your leaving.

The sweetest thingwill always bea blackbird singingin a rose treeand you listening here with me.

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Lolly Williams

signs of lifeemerging in a lightglow of pinkmy hand in yours we watchanother spring sunrise

tying knotsaround an old wooden fencemoonflowersa summer wind arrivesto scatter the fireflies

old pond ...the spring breeze pushesa water striderour small talk barely breaksthe surface tension

winter chill ...the flock of wild geesehave long departedI am haunted by the soundof their fluttering wings

cold walls ...morning light pushingthrough the cracksI learn to fill it all inmy own reality

plucky daisiesstill blooming all arounda country fencehow long since I've playedhelovesmehelovesmenot?

the viewof the ocean from herejust for a dayI let myself becomea daydream believer

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Barbara Kauffman

a viceroyseeking a summer flowerhow softthe memory of his handbarely touching my hair

spring thawan old clump of peoniessofteningso much still leftin an old crone

momentary breakin the cloud covera quick glimpseof his facealmost smiling at me

a tiny swallowstepping off the cliffinto the windwill today be the dayI finally let go

an old chestmade by pop-popnow holding a grandchild's toysthe veneer polishedwith years of laughter

morning bluesthe clouds hang heavyin the skyI search my aches and painsfor a reason to stay in bed

soft cloudsacross the open skybillowingI hid my shynessin grandmother's apron

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Janet Qually

family discordwe spend time togethermending fencesthe refreshing scentof a country breeze

we watch a meteorshoot across the skydandelion fluffscatters on the night windthis fall of beauty

raindropsrefresh the thirsty landdewdrops tooa mother wipes tearsoff the face of her child

a young coupleholds hands on the bridgecolorful koienhance the joyousnessof a day of promise

fireflies appearon a solstice nightancient ruinssomething profoundawaits discovery

another coindown the wishing wellin the city parka special pocket for quartersin my favorite purse

tossed blossomsfrom the thrashing limbsof magnolia treesI retrieve a fragrant petalafter the storm

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Michele L Harvey

at this late datethe need to be by the seaI let my hairturn the color of saltand adopt barefoot ways

forsythia budsand birdsong fill the hedgewere it not so hardto fight my inclinationand go inside to work

my heart beatswithin its casketof blood and ribthis day of high cloud and geesemakes it cry for freedom

the time of yearwhen shoots break groundmy heart liftsat this nascent buddingof new life inside

the last lightgathers together the crowsperhaps theycan close their eyesto your betrayal

spring morningand a gentle rain fallsmay tomorrowarrive like todayuntarnished by regret

the elevatorslowly stops at each floorof its ascent…hospice nurses without rushto go anywhere

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Geoff King

LAMBING STORMS

snowdrops nodto winter’s grudgingdeparturewith February’ssleety final fling

sky high larksspill sweet melodiesthat rain downto claim grassy tuftsfor mates, nests and young

hope emergeshoneysuckle leavesgladden heartsthen daffodil spearsbravely pierce the earth

lapwings divetheir whirling displayscelebratethe season of playwith their plover’s flute

northern folkseeing bulbs and birdsdon’t judge springtil lambing storms whenthe lion of March roars

parchment barkshines white in the suncrimson twigsladen with tight budsbirch withstands winter

monochromestill winter landscapecold grey skiessilhouetted treessoftened snowy slopes

swan’s wings singtheir voices join insuch musicthey make in their livesnot just at the end

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Joy McCall

LUST

a pale stempushes up throughwinter earthone brief flower dropswhite petals on the snow

the womanturns in her sleepdreamingof long dark nightsand a faint grey dawn

the manstands by the doorand speaks lowher name and a soundof quiet humming

they are dancingslowly around the roomher head restson his shouldershe is still asleep

he placesa hawthorn blossomin her hairthe dark thorn draws bloodred lust on the pillow

(lust is a shade of dark red)

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Joy McCall

FLOWERS IN THE ATTIC

I have readand in night dreamsI climbthe creaking, dustyattic stairs

some breathmoves the candle flameit goes outthe scent of dry rosesclings to my hair

my bare feetcatch on old silkand it tears . . .the kimono sashwraps around my ankle

I can heara woman cryingshe whispersin a languageI don't understand

the room is coldviolins without stringshang on hookson all the wallsbehind me, the door shuts

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Joy McCall

SLEEP

he worksat the rough tablewhile she sleepsthe oil lamp flickersthe fire burns low

moonlightslants across his handshe stopsfor a momentcontemplating

moonlightand good papernight windsthe sound of wavesbreaking on stones

she watches himfor a long momentunseenthen her eyes closeshe smiles, on the edge of sleep

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Sanford Goldstein

TROUBLES

sometimessome kind womanon a journalhas e-mails to cheerthis often-rejected me

the world,has it gone insanethis year?forty killed in Chicagoon the fourth of July

at the bakeryagain on this Tuesdaynight,so few customerswe buy more than we need

I watch and watchthese contented Japanesebabies,how lovely they are,how worried their mothers

poetswho find voices inflowers, waves,what must human voicessound like to you?

afraidthe world's goinghaywire,my tanka are writtenfrom line five to line one

no relieffrom the world'sills,even the many-coloredcosmos flowers confused

these hospital figureswith canes or wheelchairsor slouching,and me in my dizzinessamong the old old-timers

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Joy McCall

BARK and MOSS

his fingersrun over ridges and furrowsof rough barkmy hand beside his,loving the tree

crouching,his feet in pine needlesand mossesthe smell of damp earthtiny curling moss-fern

and he sawon the edge of sighta deerdisturbed by our voicesthere - and then gone

my headis filled with imagesvisionscolours, textures, the shapeshis voice is painting

somewhereoff in the distancea songdo you think you can tellheaven from hell? *

I think I can . . .I have visiteda kind of hellwhere the lossestumbled all over each other

a placewhere weeks and monthswere lostand though I searchedI could not find them

I can tradenoisy machinesfor tall silent treesor knives and needlesfor a close warm body

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there's a voicesinging songs I know so wellthere's the quick deerand bark, and mossand pines, and sky, and love

* Pink Floyd: Wish you were here.

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Andrew Howe & Marilyn Humbert

unprunedwinter rosebarricades my path -a peregrine's ascentduets the cinnamon sunrise

bird watchingsilence is interruptedby heated words –among the thornsdrops of moonshine cling

blooded fingersgrasp a featherstuck -salted tearsblur my vision

soundless starsin the pitch of nightbend and dissolveinto shadowy shapes -my hopes and fears collide

untouchedthe vaulted door opensbroken …scattered eggshellson the nursery floor

fate and faithbleached by failure -waves hammerthe craggy shoreinto sand-drifts

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FATE & FAITH


Don Wentworth &Joy McCall

ALIVE

into the clearingwe go, forgettingthe dense woodsforgetting the pathgoes either way

soon, lostdisorientatedwe stoptry to take our bearingswrite poems instead

the petalsof this nameless weedthe textureof this unlined paperbeckoning shadows

tryingto keep writingin straight linesmy words begin circlingspiralling, spinning

up, up, upround, round, roundthe swallowsclimbing, divingalive, alive!

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Niagara Fallsdeath is notthe end

we slip over

the edge, into love

in the houseof morbid thoughtsa potted tulip

outside, a field

of wild clover

overcast skypulling the plugon this July morning

the grass, the trees

they keep on breathing

just when I thoughtI couldn’t be more aloneovercast sky

clouds for company

silent, untouchable

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a few tearsand the overcast skydarkens

the gentleness

of sorrow, holds me

bird on the wing of a soul in transit

one grey feather falls to the earth

on a park bencha stranger sharesher love of God

I take her hand

and hold it to my cheek

thereamong the treetopsthe poem’s ending

the sky calls, the leaves

tremble and fall

sun behind cloudsa stranger not yet opento kindness

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the slow dawning

of an Autumn day

quickerthanquickthemoleinthehole

slips

out

into

the

night

a

black

shadow

. . .

Robert Epstein San Francisco, USA

Joy McCall Norwich, England

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So much wine

on that roadby the ghost bridgewhere we didthe wild thingI think I saw blackberries

the riverflooding the roadat today's high tidedeep water over the bankwhere we lay in spring

in another lifewe'll sitin front of the fireand read to each otherand drink wine

so many livesso many booksso much wineyou begin...once upon a time

sometimesI want the impossibleespeciallylate at nightwhen I've had too much sake

Peter Fiore & Joy McCall

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No rush

how can there beone way to Eternity?chrysanthemums and rainmaples, monkeys and robinsjust ask the four winds...

the windsblow the brown leavesfrom the treesthe robins pick wormswhere I turn the soil

high upin the ghost pinesnests of brown leavesfor the squirrels...so much for winter

a slow deaththe bare branchesof the treesten years goneno flesh on my father's bones

falling leavesbetween Norwichand Mahopacwhen will we meetagain?

we ageungracefullydancingthrough the light, the darkmoments, hours, years

first snow tonightI sit by the fireno rushwe will love each otherin any way we can

Peter Fiore & Joy McCall

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Sunday Meditation

quiet...behind this work desk a few prayersspill from moving lips;"Adonai thank You."

quiet Sunday morningreading the psalmists words

Happy the man who walksin the path of God

in a pause of silence,listening to a messianic rabbiteachon prayer from a Jewish perspective

the quietness of prayera soft and gentle breeze

causes the branches to swaya bird takes flight

this Shabbatwatching the return ofdrunk young-men, their antics in celebrationof a fellow brother's bachelor party

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Steve

Typewritten text


the contradictory natureof nominal Christians

forgive me for I have sinnedand will do once more

fingering grandmother's rosary....bare branches beating the housein 4/4 time....you're still not home

all the tortured memoriesof blow upon blow raining down

bruises blossom all year roundcolours of abuse

at the kitchen tablewondering, how can a personhold all of that poison of abuse inside—downpour of cold rain

looking at the rain soaked streetsmeditating one more time

on the words of the psalmisthow truthful his words.

Matsukaze & Steve Wilkinson (a responsive dodoitsu)

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Steve

Typewritten text



Five o'clock Train

tonights setting sunthe first one I've seensince your departure..darkness falls

old gray paint peelingon the harbor house--

reaching for your handbefore the train pulls off

into the distanceyou have gone awaymile by lonely mileof blueness

pale green day dressstrewn across an unmade bed--

in nearly an hourguests will arrive

light from the full moonwraps around your skinwe are no closerto the truth

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always the wall of the unsaid,but often thought

putting away doubts;I continue dressing

I put on my doubtslike fine woven clothjudge me as I standjust one time

cold..it's the 5pm train pulling offwhatever you have to say is

swallowed in steam and whistle

(Responsive dodoitsu : Steve Wilkinson & Matsukaze)

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Orrin PreJean

he absently plays with my goatee—seated side by side near Lake Charlesthe color of chrome

down by Miller's bistroan old woman tells meof hardships—her story told by the rain

winter dawn!this morning, washing my facei wonder about a dream i had that's quickly fading

head cradled in my lap like a child,you breathe deeplynext to you a Communist newsletter

more melancholy than the bright moon at daybreakis stumping my big toeon my son's bike

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Matsukaze

Urban Existence (tanka rensaku)

this evening, not feeling like being sweet. the night pierced by various lights-this city of silence*picked up, Sato's book of Shikishi's waka-in my reverie smelling the delightful body spray I wear*it seems as with all things tonight, I will wrestle with words just to form a tanka or two*there will be no nights of wet roofs, wide sleeves, peeled persimmons; or love discussions before dawn*feeling the weight of the world, I attend service hoping for ablution of whatever sits heavy within me*the waves of Lake Charles, wet my sleeves when i trail my fingers in the waters- meandering thoughts are the norm*have only seen his shadow, never his face-near the small ditch, i feel hisheartlessness in new ways*brought me, a box of assorted chocolates: the scraping of bare branches against the upstairs window*comparing this life to a string of beads, how quaint-all courtly elegance trashed for this urban existence*

over espressos, listening to him tell me about how love-starved he is. drifting leaves in this sudden wind*

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taping "Doors are locked, use your key cards please," signs on the doors—another computer glitch, I'm so over this*2am, still waiting for the tele-customer service rep, if only this night were one of my off days...*unable to stomach any more conversation, runnin' to the nearest restroom-finding a vein for the injection...*we, the human race, a species of carnivores-in this coastal city we're no different; always feeding on each other.*shopping for dinner, passing a pile or blood red oranges i want a lover who will grip me 'round my waist possessively*again, I've seen his shadow, seen mine as well. in the face of this child i see how fatherless he really is*...quiet before dawn...always tossing and turning, stretching your long body into my sleeping space, into my life*hearing conversation, from the drunk ones-how I envy their freedom still typing wishing this phone wouldn't ring*again i waited, waited nearly four hours...passing shadows of cars and people-all of them: not you*picking words and phrases from my mind. the mind of a playwright, an actor; and each tanka, a scene in a play*from my perch, high in the maple shooting a snow white pheasant--home, washing off the day's masks*some mornin's, i grab breasts that aren't there--a shaded hamlet buried in thethicket down in my soul

47


in a rare moment of truth, "I simply want to please the Eternal."--such sentiments, have been popping up lately*too many phone numbers, of men, who aren't mine. will never be mine. why do I set myself up for misery?*waiting for these tele-reps to pick up, dashing off a few tanka that comprisesthis current rensaku*my story, aint full of silks and diamonds-its urban, passable, and sometimesdownright raunchy....but its mine*off day: house-air, drenched in sandalwood incense, i; in my boxers, move fluidly through this day with no cares*woke up late. handled my hygiene and decided to watch Strauss's 'Salome.'-gave myself the gift of nothing*reading Princess Shikishi's waka, sadness pervades---damn! I cannot live such a tortured life*strolling the waterfront, this night is full of people hungrily being human- once saw a drama like this, it scared me*another early morning jog-passing several fellas with shirts off-this early coolness settles into my skin nicely*while cooling pasta, listening to Dorothy Moore's 'Special Occasion' can't help but smile remembering you*another morning, watching 'Maude...' this hotel shows sounds of stirring...just what i really need*having a pick-me-up brandy, with a professor of the Old Testament—darkness still blankets the city

48


am I foolish? or even degenerate, for sitting through this meeting; thinkingof last weeks weed-high?*decided to board the city bus. heading downtown to Pujo Street...someonesmells of bacon and cantaloupe*bathing: I lie back in steamed water listening to Stravinsky's 'Oedipus Rex--'somewhere in me, the ground shudders*lonely morning: driving to work passing an old woman in tatters, pushing abasket of puppys*in one week, composed two sequences of 100 tanka-a fresh pot of coffee, and three danishes for breakfast*how many times does: "God'll getcha for that Walter," bring me to laughing-tears? how I'd wear Maude's clothing today*sleeping light towards morning: the stirrings of my sisters, never fail to pierce this white slumber*from the window, seeing the pre-dawn darkness: thinking: 'damn, id sure like it if autumn would stay*all this talk, about summer bodies and other bodybuilding shit...as spring comes I recall why I despise the heat*waiting, for the married-one to give me a call, a text message or something;another morning lying in bed, alone*flowering hibiscus, in vivid red: lying beneath soft sheets; another dense dawn- self-love is a wonderful option*pouring over, this morning's torah portion-not sure when bus comes, he bustles out of the house with no goodbye

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cold morning, leaves are damp; the parking-lot nearly empty. I'm beyond prepared to head home to bed*"is there some man's bed i could lie down in?" this is the question i ask, feeling I'm dressed in a whore's skin *watching them all playing bid whist, another morning; nursing a hang-over...in the distance, a phone rings*in semi-darkness, her face seems almost wooden--both of us naked, lying in bed our limbs waxen through the cigarette smoke*mistakenly, overhearing us speak about her loss of breasts, my son stares hard at her chest*the 'good mornings' of the breakfast attendants, seem flat--then again, perhaps its me just ready for this shift to end

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