jornales

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

under a wilting sky (for One Shoot Sunday)

'he never calls' photo prompt by Rob Hanson

notes you left on a wrinkled sky
that’s never blue always a heartless hue bruises
no sun can stand

shifts eternity imposes: no mere pauses—
your convenient absence these slashes
on tender paper you tore off the back of my palm

excuses I proffer—my veins throb so
in your presence—you deride lips smacking
on listless air my shroud

under a waiting sky, wilting
no one knows why

who but the heart
that knows knows when a smile
alights on a voice

who among the spaces senses
a smile as it wings its path to the heart
that knows

a flight quite swift aboard a voice still quite
mute its ring a sound only when it alights
on the heart that knows knows

what that smile knows knows its birth in the heart
only the heart that knows knows
why waiting

wilts the sky

Posted for One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry from an image prompt by Rob Hanson in this inimitbale gathering place of poets and artists.Cenck us out. Better yet, hop in!

June 12, 2011 Posted by | free verse, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

trimming the tree/winter full moon

1.
trimming the tree–
a cat’s frame
not a star

2.
winter full moon—
the missing napkin ring
beside the Star

–haiku for jornales friends with my wishes for the most of yours during this Christmas season and the new Year!

The lunar eclipse saluted us first, extravagantly, too, and the winter full moon sails on into our wishes among the constellations, sometimes witnessing for us who cannot see stars skidding through Light Years that will never be visible in our time. The secret in our lives is the moment, the moment lived whether fully or not, aware or not.

The moment I just learned on reading an issue of Poetry (December 2006) is thus the essence of all art. Art must not only capture it but live it for us the way we actually do but can’t fathom–in the hugeness of the universe and Time–until an artist does it for us.

You and I, newbie or master, implanted with the seed to let art blossom must take command–do we have a choice? You and I know we don’t have as it has taken over our souls, the deepset recesses of our being even, as I know from lines you generously leave here. Thank you–if I could but reinvent the word!

last winter in fornt of a dressed-up Vancouver Art Gallery when snow defaulted on Vancouver during the 2010 Winter Olympics

December 23, 2010 Posted by | haiku, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

mementoes (when my haiku mutate into free verse)

through shedding arcs
up the sand hill down the slide
i make a short cut to my wedding

my veil tangled in a hail
of magnolia endings

six heads bob over the hedge but
a man selling balloons i pull up
a picture the sun

fades in my hand my ring turns
blue in autumn rain

i gawk on my mud-soaked feet
pigeons i startle whoosh up
spray the sky

as seagulls prancing stomp
on my impaled shadow

on my wall i let go of daylight
on the window ledge
my cabbage roses wilt

on leaf tips I glimpse my tears
dripping from my shredded heart

December 14, 2010 Posted by | free verse, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments