jornales

for a moment of joy or moments no one pays for, i give myself a ‘jornal’. this makes me rich. try it.

Four-year old Miriya took this tanka to carry in her pocket: Poem in Your Pocket Day

The future of poetry especially of tanka and haiku is secure; it’s in the hands of Miriya, the four-year old daughter of poet friend Christina Nguyen. Miriya found my tanka in GUSTS 15 of  Tanka Canada, which also has her mom’s and many other known friends, that apparently her mom was reading and had laid down with the page open where this tanka is. Christina told me she read it and asked to read it to her again, and in the end, asked her to write it down on a post-it so she can carry it in her pocket to read again and again. I’m not flattered but deeply honored. An angel has taken hold of my poetry, hence, in heavenly hands. It’s beyond any other honor I ever hope to achieve. Thank you Miriya and Christina.

was it you
who laid this feather
on my feet
seeking my forgiveness
in the rain?

GUSTS 15, Spring 2012

April 27, 2012 Posted by | poetry, tanka | , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

I was once her (for one Shot Wednesday)

who sits on the couch in the music room
lost in autumn hair, violins on a CD player
wafting smiles not hers, smiles of a piquant woman
her lover lost on the river walk that evening
briar roses crumbled on their steps shredded
foliage cushioned.

She sits on vacant clouds, eyes
hinting wakefulness on pools
the sun once mirrored
then drowned. The geese left no sign
that evening of the walk not even a note
to hold up to a sun sinking on the barge:
logs swayed on the water, old men rasped
scraping brawns the tide whittled,

bumping to the rhythm. She hears
her lover hum the tune,
a river whistling in the runes, flowing
infinitely like words in
a vow: in this and that state
no breath in between
but death. Not geese but iron flies
buzzing into her heart shattered

the pool that afternoon, shards of water
blinding her her lover saying good-bye, to fly
on blades that whirl not wings that beat
on air, to return an angel, breast beribboned
to preen to count those fallen
from his fingers.
She peers through her cloud this afternoon:
a river ebbing at her feet, touching

her wiggling toes, she giggles over
silly notes as violins rise, twirling
allegro on the river bank where she once sat
mourning over geese that afternoon
her lover returned a name
in a note unsigned, the lover

who once was mine.

Posted for One Shot Wednesday at One Stop Poetry, the gathering place of poets and artists yet unmatched in calibre and talent. I’m a follower here. Do check us out!

June 15, 2011 Posted by | free verse, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments