jornales

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

questions, your answer…a haiku series

winter silhouettes—

if blackened do nails

retell stories?

***

spiced wind

do snow tracks carry

your voice?

***

when banana hearts

peel off a lover, is it

the solstice?

***

lotus shadow…

is that frog song

a dirge?

***

tattered waves

why must keening tears

leap as an arc?

***

roaring wind

from what stone pod

do you rise?

***

sun dial

in the dark toasting

minions?

***

his arrhythmic heart

on a treadle…
does the weaver

know?

***

wild wind

on dry sedge—

what more 
in her mind?

***

spiraling down

as fish…is the ocean

my soul?

 

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January 11, 2015 Posted by | haiku, Uncategorized | , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

random seasons, a haiku/senryu series

stone wall

mottled hands escaping

through air

 

ham flavor

hangs about her sweater

hospice weekend

 

though touch-less

the intimate rustle of silk

 

fall

dog buries

bruises

 

hobbling out of my midnight winter moon

 

apple core

how to bottle

memories

 

a tiger

musing on my eye

autumn dusk

 

chopped beets

i wash the knife

of traces

 

open page

an opaque scent

in his bath water

 

oak stump–

i remember the hornets

last summer

 

shell shards

on a paint roller

a womb

 

November 25, 2014 Posted by | haiku, poetry, senryu | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Robert Frost’s stone house in Shaftsbury, Vermont

 

He had bought this house to try his hand at farming but quite unsuccessfully, yet he kept it, visiting it intermittently while he taught in and around the state. The house is now a modest museum with sparse furniture but paneled with text, chronicling his life and poetry. It’s here in a room facing south of what is now a field of wild flowers that he wrote his most anthologized and quoted poem, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” one June morning following the winter he went horse riding. The room is dedicated to the poem, including how he wrote it—as a whole in one sweep—controversies regarding a comma, discussions and debates on what he meant by his most quoted stanza, as well as critics’ attempts at drawing out from him more than what he wrote. They agree on the ‘ulteriority’ of his poetry as he insisted there is no hidden meaning in his lines. He simply meant ‘it was getting late and I had to go home.’ But debates rage on…

 

“…The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.”

As a lover of his poetry, having been introduced to ‘his woods’ in my youth in a faraway tropical country, visiting his house has meant, for me, finding fulfillment of a yet another vague dream.

Alegria Imperialtxt/Eleanor Angelespix

September 17, 2012 Posted by | personal essay, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

the only star (haibun for Locating the Senses in Language and Place)

As if it is unusual, the way evening falls on our lives in the winter. The cold bars us in, our thoughts seemingly unto each own. Winter, I once said, drawing a long sigh, asks of us the wearying task of digging into our burrows alone and not together, like squirrels and hares and bears. As if I hardly change. As if the seasons pass me by and like a portrait on stone—my pose in reverie engraved the way I must look right now. No sound except Kat-kat sleeping, purring dreams.

I murmur. I know. Soon, the cold winds will curl up and roll into the hearts of seas. Heat will seep off iced waters and the dark earth. I know a clump of snowdrops by the gate will spawn again, shy as virgins who would never look up to their lovers’ eyes. In a while, crocuses will sprout buds like pursed lips, waiting for a kiss. Not filigreed lawns but mantled front gardens of Queen Anne’s lace will soon spark.

This morning, I glimpsed pregnant knuckles of hydrangea twigs, though the cherry trees remain dead in the cold sun. I know their blossoms, as well the white plums and magnolias, will huddle over skies in a night. But for now, deep in the quietness of snow

this longing

at moonrise

the only star

by Alegria Imperial posted for

Locating the Senses in Language and Place Edition #14,  Stella Pierides, editor

March 6, 2012 Posted by | haibun, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

doves/winter dawn/eyes (haiku on relationships at NaHaiWriMo)

Inca doves nesting courtesy of wikicommons

1.

 cooing

we slip past

the brambles

3.

winter dawn

grayer than her tresses

on his chest

3.

eyes

locked in adoration

my cat and i

Nov 25th prompt by Carlos Colon at the still ongoing National Haiku Writing Month (NaHaWriMo facebook site) with slight editing of #1.

November 28, 2011 Posted by | haiku, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

reggae (haibun)

So, why reggae when I could or must dwell on variations of winter? Even the sun has withdrawn to cuddle up with hibernating thoughts and fur-thickened limbs. It’s cold and damp and gray in my city everyday. Which is why perhaps, this morning I woke up with the sound of reggae on a basin in my mind, the kind you hear on Times Square in New York from the subway station on 42nd and Broadway to the corners of that triangle where Tickits booths stand.

reggae–
the sun dripping
on his basin

Always, a robust sun streams no end on the basin from which reggae artists coax notes to rise  like it were a constant season. But we don’t return after the summer or late spring.

catching a breath
his notes leave for the moon–
reggae

Or under a November sky, without the sun and the reggae artist, we would ourselves be lamenting.

reggae  the sun we can’t find

November 24, 2011 Posted by | haibun, poetry, reflection | , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

purring/the only sound…(a haiku that went on to be a vignette, not a haibun)

purring–
the only sound
between them

…as if it is unusual, marks the way evening falls ever so quietly in our lives in the winter. The cold bars us in, our thoughts seemingly unto each own. Winter, I once said, drawing a deep long sigh, asks of us a wearying task of digging into our burrows alone and not together. He had quipped, like squirrels and hares and bears, right?

He makes light of the dark, that’s him, my friend and lover. I see beyond everything and make too much of it, as he describes my thought patterns. As if I hardly change, as if the seasons pass me by and like a portrait on stone–my pose in reverie engraved the way I must look right now, looking out to the soft snow glowing on its own light as it falls. No sound except Kat-kat sleeping, purring its dreams.

Don’t worry, he breaks the silence. In a few weeks, the bare trees will sprout, he says without looking at me from the book he’s reading. I know, I murmur. I know. The cold winds will curl up and roll into the depths of seas. Heat will seep off the waters and the dark frozen earth, breathing life back to whatever withered and died in the cleansing whiteness of snow. I’m not worried or sad, if that’s what you think, I retort delayed. I’m simply pondering…

…and I continue. A clump of snowdrops by the gate will spawn again shy as virgin girls who would never look up to their lovers’ eyes. In a while, crocuses will raise their buds like pursed lips, waiting for a kiss. Not filigreed lawns but front gardens dotted with Queen Anne’s lace will soon unfurl. This morning, I glimpsed pregnant knuckles of hydrangea twigs, though the cherry trees in the winter sun remain starkly bare, and flapping among winter debris, the nuthatch, an early migrant bird. Spring, a brief and giddying season, I know, always seems to burst and spangle the skies with cherry blossoms, white plums and magnolias as if overnight…but I must end here and take the rest of the seasons in a new cycle of our lives.

Kat-kat wakes up, looks out the window and tightens up to a hunter’s pose. I follow her eyes to a stirring in the trees. Not a leaf but a nuthatch. Spring, I cry out! I told you so, he says without looking.

Possibly a haibun? No it can’t be because one of the many features of a haibun according to “Poetry Form-The haibun” from J. Zimmerman’s book, parts of which can be read on the web, is that “The haiku is not a linear continuation of the prose” or in this case, I suppose not an introduction to the prose.

In this post, the vignette just took over from the haiku. I see it though as a string of several possible haiku!

March 3, 2011 Posted by | haibun, haiku, poetry | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

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

gouache image

gouache image
of itself in the sky–
winter moon

December 17, 2010 Posted by | haiku, poetry | , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

winter magnolia

blotched
knobbed
bare–
winter magnolia

Image:Atlanta_trees_039_764.JPG
http://www.wkikihow.com<a

December 13, 2010 Posted by | haiku, poetry | , , , , , , , | 2 Comments