Whatever archives say is not
history
history is there in walls of
ruminations
mind’s arcades
phantasmagoria of dreams
paintings hanging on walls
suffocated out of our obtuseness
and ink stands
which speak of
the derelict written word.
Euphoria visualised.
It begins at the base, a series
of background questions.
Then the story is spread out
Leaf to branch to leaf, a face
of a protagonist, a villain,
a few strange quotations.
One way, the story branches to
a satisfying locus of foliage.
The other way, the way is broken,
splintered, falls breathless to the ground.
Born during the famine
my seawoman ancestor set out regularly
into the Atlantic, southwards
and eastwards, towards Bristol,
trading metal and grain.
Though she lies quiet now
in the tomb at Ráth
my mind carries her about,
delicately as a caul,
sets her free on the high seas.
I am there too, at the binnacle,
manning the compass,
plotting our course westwards.
The name of our journey is mingling, or
daring, or dwelling with the things she loved.
In the sea there is no place
that is not her place.
Each journey is an alert
romance.
She respects the ocean’s stillness,
knows its savagery.
As waters rock beneath us
I nudge through her reticence,
amid flicker of whale pulse
and dolphin plunge, touch her heart,
sky sidling away in the wind,
and the notion I share with Kate, that this was our
first home,
that we crawled from its wet turbulence
aeons ago, limped across shores,
loved land later, with its trees and sighs.
I’ll be the ham
You be the mustard
Life can be the crusty
bread that holds us
together, toasty.
Now I need to figure
out the plate, napkins,
kitchen and cook.
A quiet daring stillness
between titanic events
like stirring the air.
Husks in trees
winter is short
of those fruits
lying in labyrinth
roads and dusty
shops, I waver
in this net of time
radiate in flow
then the afterglow
of the sun, mists unfurling
trees, restaurants in noise
weather gloves, woolens
caps, tea served will gesture
to the winter
warm and serve
me in old wooden homes.
fallen leaves
broken branches
twilight years
More at https://twitter.com/Haikuintraining.
I wish for a world free of child-soldiers
with no land mines, no nuclear bombs and no guided missiles
sent by misguided leaders, demonizing others, stocking arsenals
a world where people prevail over profits
and education uses up the defense budgets
a world of loving neighborhoods
without betrayal, abuse or neglect
no little girls forced into pregnancy
to please old men without ambition.
I wish for a world where politicians become agents of mercy
guided by the universal precepts of abundance and charity
with policies stated in simple sentences without deceit
a world of clean air, clean water and clear skies above
where Dr. King’s dreams materialize with no compromise
where everyone’s talents naturally flourish
dream your own fabulous dreams
sleeping safely in your cozy beds.
new day
melting icicles
on blossom branches
More at https://twitter.com/Haikuintraining.
moments floated past me
as I walked the old courtyard
photos suspended in the air
images of a younger me
a more frightened person
I thought of the crisis time
when I had to decide
between who I was and who
others made me out to be
every poor decision
and choice of wording
navigating to my purpose
and how soon
rain would come and autumn
would be thicker than memory