jornales

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

‘the colour plum’ in a quartet of (non-haikai*) 3-line poems…and why

I think I’m veering farther and farther away from haiku, but the structure has stayed like a template in my being; hence, my lines insist on being ‘three’, of two parts often unrelated (juxtaposition). While I still draw the essence of my poems from Nature, what comes out no longer expands contemplation but rather, the lines focus often on painful truths. I know there’s enough pain swirling in the universe right now (as is perceived) and it’s what I can’t seem to whitewash with the beauty of virgin snow. I wish I could but in writing haiku, the practice of finding ‘two-sides’ in a whole, has stayed with me as a simultaneous numbra/penumbra, thus, these non-haikai* poems. Still, it could just be a phase that has slipped in with grey November, which spring will lift up.

 

the colour plum

hints of pay back

maneuvers

 

bramble flower

still not enough

prickly stares

 

isolation bars

no matter our fingers

in knots

 

speckled steps

dare you break

rain patterns

 

moon basket

in it I carry

a widow’s comb

 

*nod to Johannes S. H. Berg, who coined it

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November 28, 2014 Posted by | comment, non-haikai, poetry | , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

at bones journal–my single haiku and sequence

 

(I’m sorry, I can’t add color to the font anymore!)

single haiku

 

his stud pearl earring about a seahorse

damaged sky–
the clue
is in a shoe box 

Bones, July 2013

anatomy notes sequence

body matters
for mannequins
chopped off heads

knee plates bob
up and down
at cross purpose

checked
lying down…slouched
chins

delete
stumbling block
for flat feet

no. 10—
a gag on his fingers
as with silk

his old organ
gasps a night song…
crossed out

scored
a heart beat equals
flushed pee

spire…
whose dirty nail
bores a moon? 

green tongue
the consul’s deafness
to her pleas

body tag-
at blank hrs to island
of Langerhans

 

Bones 2 July 2013

June 15, 2014 Posted by | haiku, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

random haiku (from my posts at the NaHaiWriMo wall)

a.
reggae–
the sun dripping
on his basin

b.
she hurtles
notes into the rapids—
the jazz pianist

c.
homecoming–
he smiles
into her fingers

d.
chrysalis—
the other life
begins

e.
his purring
on cellos from my CD player—
evening thrum

July 3, 2011 Posted by | haiku, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 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

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

enraged (for One Shoot Sunday)

Darth Vader by Jack AZ

we go on, wagging
forefingers at skies,
resenting seasons
that fall on us in clumps
of such rhythmic
regularity we just can’t
play our black violins
raging against or else

against the grind
we feel a heartless hand
its fingers like iron
claws so tight in grip we find
our waggling a senseless
attempt at being freed—if
but one beat one note

one breath that does not
fall in rhythmic rhyme
skids from fingers that slide
from point to point to
point, interminable
points, infinitesimal bits,
that had so imprisoned us
raging—

one breath that stops and
we can’t, we won’t find out
we haven’t moved away
from seasons we resented,
music we played, beats
we raged against

Posted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry from a photo prompt titled, “Darth Vader” by Jack AZ. Join us, a community of poets and artists who share the art they so love and nurture reach other.

February 20, 2011 Posted by | free verse, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 16 Comments