jornales

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

Night Scents: the truth about roses (for One Shot Wednesday)

Evening has fallen, tarnishing all translucence. Daffodils, for one, sprayed like comet behind a picket fence, are now turned-down copper bells. Magnolias, that crowd of plump cheeks on Warren Avenue, now doze on bruised faces.

Only dogwoods on front lawns seem to take evening fall with grace. Their crown, a dull mantle in daylight, has turned into iridescent lace while on the ground ivy has thickened, breathing like a ghost.

Not colors but scents have taken over life in the dying day. But nothing like vapors that seem solid like steam or fog or mist, just weightless molecules spinning in the air.

‘Fragrant’ seems paltry if it were to mean the scent of violets blindly met along a cypress hedge on Montgomery St.—a bouquet part spicy part sweet like a potion for a faint spirit. ‘Perfumed’ weighs gaudily on jasmine for its scent from a terrace on Battery St. descends as faint as a memory—fleeting like all moments that come back to haunt.
.
The nose, is it? Or perhaps the heart leads the nose to track down the scent of roses. Some flourish in unlikely spots; they trap the heart in a patch back of a kitchen on Riverside, for instance. Here, rose bushes wear open faces. No secret chambers there.

Even in the evening, rose blooms thrust up as if to sing—but not to sing, perhaps more to sigh. Listen then and breathe for in opening their lips, their scent also escapes. Note that only in the evening this truth about roses is revealed: their scent hints at sour drops and salt sprays, tears and regrets and the million contradictions lodged in the heart.

Copyright (c) by Alegria Imperial 2009
Published in Eleventh Flash in the Pan at Tiny Lights magazine

Posted for One Shot Wednesday 53rd week at One Stop Poetry, that inimitable gathering place for poets and artists. Check out what we share and do hop in!

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July 6, 2011 Posted by | lyrical prose | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

The Bootmaker (for One Shoot Sunday)

photo prompt by Rob Hanson

He wraps his broadness
around the air he gathers in quiet
hands poking a wasp caught in a web.
Overhead a patch of sunlight–
he fails to see the breeze
brushing its plum seeds:

his eyes clouded over
for the flights of mourning doves
breathless as once they alit
on her gray hair whiter
than Venus rising before she flew off
leaving him a smile in a cast.

Mornings encase him in this chair
that moulds his spine arched in years
renews his fingers to love the iron last–
he fits today the dancing tips of a shoe
the red-haired woman tears each night
and comes storming in

her breath of fermented cherries
swarms on the leather swatches the jute strings
the hammer and anvil softening them as if
oiling the edges of buried embers
he bends as if cowering in fear as if
a female fox sears him with flaming eyes.

Her eyes waved on tips of ocean weeds
the first time she smiled pulling him
in an undertow of coral reefs
unresisting he yielded to her depths
softer than mollusk flesh
more supple than oyster cheeks.

She braids her red hair this morning
pulls tight her cheeks baring her teeth–
he knows from where she draws water
the well in the woods some elves abandoned
in the spring for an ocean
breeds red dragonflies that turn into wands.

In the pool under the elms
he waits at dusk long after the sun
has turned away long before the moon creeps up
as if shy for its stained cheek and curved chin.
In the wan light she rises over the reeds
afloat, a smile framed by her white hair.

Her red hair catches sparks
from skids of the hammer he blinks
she nudges him—words turn into grunts
from joints of his chair the weight
bearing down on his contracting heart—
“Come tonight I’ll dance for you.”

Her white hair catches foam
from far off billows, she swirls around him—
a braid of tenderness suffuses his darkness:
“Leave the welts on your table to melt in the night,
the lasts will walk away, your chair
will fold onto itself,” she intones lulling him.

She loosens her red hair
baring her neck down to the screaming lights
tearing her apart, her shoes bursting
at the tips, the soles flying
lost in the woods where the elves
now ghosts in the well catch and keep.

She knocks on her bare feet–
the mourning doves unfurl their despair.
She pushes the door open. The half light exhales
stale air from his chair. Up close his head bent
as if intent on her shoes–a spider web
wraps his beard, tighten his lips unsmiling.

(c) Alegria Imperial
Composed from a photo prompt by Rob Hanson and posted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry, THE gathering place for poets and artists who share their passion for their art while nurturing each other. Come join us!

June 5, 2011 Posted by | free verse, narrative verse, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

simple truths (for One Shot Wednesday)

simple truths rest
on stamens those succulent fibers
engorged by tears
the taste of sea spray

the sense of touch
defines homo sapiens on cheeks
the sweetness anthers hold the pollens
grow filaments on nose tips

smell to beasts like men feeds power
sniffing a cluster of lilacs
the mind sees indigo
the dye of death reeks of weakness

only a distanced eye
sharpens the heels of Lady’s Slippers
only fingertips fit the godhead’s
vacant smile

blistered palms could crack the lightning
break a thunder into a storm
but tongues roll clouds into balls
pelt the lips of magnolias

distend the petals
hold
let shatter into a mesh
of distracted grace

our reasoning
corroded

Posted for One Shot Wednesday at One Stop Poetry, winner of the 2011 Shorty Award for the Arts, a gathering of poets and artists sharing their art, nurturing each other. Check us out.

May 10, 2011 Posted by | free verse, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

i have no name (for One shoot Sunday)

Heather Nelson, photo by India Hobson

the owl
sees through me he digs
my heart
the truth about names

i am muneca
a filament of being
you drew
from rambling waterfalls

on my cheeks
you shaped a winter sky
my eyes and the temple tower
vie for light

you punctured
my lips so deep i gurgle
my defiance
of your desire

restless
your fingers knead
my neck to smoothen
veins you embedded

i leap in spasms
my death as brief
as your breath in my
clogged vena cava

you think
i am perfect in your hands
i grow molds
in the day

my skin liquifies
as you dream i am life
the owl reveals
i have no name

muneca a doll
of your melting eyes
has no heart

Posted from a photo image by India Hobson for One Shoot Sunday at One Shot Poetry, winner of the 2011 Shorty Award for Art given last week in New York. Come join us at this gathering place and meet talented poets and artists who share their love for their art.

April 3, 2011 Posted by | free verse, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 15 Comments

the calm/rereading cards/round and round (3 tanka on the calm from the earthquake elsewhere)

Mie and me on her last visit to Vancouver

1.
the calm–
from Kyoto Mie writes
far from earthquake
the wedding garden today
light snow on cherry buds

2.
rereading cards–
from Michio in Saitama
her New year’s wishes
of Rabbit hopes and dreams
today mine for her in pray’r

3.
round and round
moon and earth mirror each other
chaos of winds
ruined faces blemished cheeks
to be cleansed over and over

March 22, 2011 Posted by | poetry, tanka | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

mist/deepwinter/thunder in the copse–v-day haiku but no ‘heart’ as kigo (for One Stop Poetry, also my 13th,14th,15th NaHaiWriMo)

13.
mist—
too wet on cheeks
to be a kiss

14.
deep winter—
bundled up we search
for each other’s eyes

15.
thunder in the copse
a vow
unintended

‘Heart’ as kigo is missing here but it’s hinted at. Does Valentine belong to Japanese haiku tradition? I believe it’s not though I don’t really know much about modern Japanese haiku. Perhaps, it has included it as a kigo. Here’s what I think comes closest to it–the courtly tanka in its purest form like this tanka from Thomas Gurgal’s Japanese Tanka, The Court Poetry of a Golden Age, first posted here under grey relentless rain (is it tanka? 02/07 2011) ‘I am comforted’ page 41:

I am comforted;
Now wordly impermanence
Seems unimportant;
Seen in the depths of your eyes,
The warm eternal darkness.

Posted also for One Stop Poetry’s Saturday Celebration of Valentine’s Day. Check us out!

February 12, 2011 Posted by | haiku, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments