My mother’s plants flourished in our garden
her azaleas and jasmine bloomed
in the spring following her death
from their vulnerable transplanted state
they prospered and assumed new prominence
with stronger roots and assured strong contours,
like my mother, I love to nurture,
I delight in signs of new growth.
Gossamer wings
crush stereotypes in living
art and reality, in poetry take
us to glimpses on ether
let this not waver
reality position, unfolding
truths
untruths
gossamer wings, your pony-tailed face will eclipse all our lies
forever.
When I see these trees
their curled torsos — infinity
and colours around them swirl in sea madness.
Touch. Touch them
as they tell stories of lands
desecrated and bodies banished with the wind
blistering in rain hollows.
Don’t worry, the ageing crisis
is over, the dead have been dumped in fields, mines and rivers, their bodies will be preserved in museums,
today every death is a maxim, an honour to preserve till posterity
knows
how many deaths
how many deaths
in a nuclear age
in a global world
in the world pressing buttons with one slender finger.
Only history will rue such deaths.
(For ‘R’)
You go and do it
have the revolution
embedded in your incarcerated dreams, but
don’t bring red, only other colours
the dance of the peacock,
swirling feathers, the regal pelican, the coated parrot, the green,
the blue the mauve the yellow
not the red
not the blood
change by all means
bring in the revolution
yours, mine evolution.
Not the red
Not the blood
Yes deplore poverty
Yes play the blame game
the blockbuster
breaking the hustings
the gun, the vote bombs
But not with the blood
Not the red, only in
prismatic colours.
Wherever you go
the sparring want
the dubious jaunt
faces gaunt
poverty impoverished
not ever to be replenished
we cry, we protest
Is this all a test
not far are gallows
in eyes that are hollow
a country burns, another
turns impostor
one is pleading,
the other misleading
one is a bully
the other sulky
one wants doles
another picks holes
one says disarmament
the other says missile
come we all imbecile, docile
we know that wherever we
go there is the ranting want.
When illness strikes
controlling your life.
When pain is a nasty daily visitor
holding you tight
in the grip of old age.
When what remains
are aging memories
of a partner loved
of children young and once dependent
of adults who now need you less
while you yearn to be needed more.
Some turn to faith as a consoling force.
But I have burned those bridges long ago.
For God is no longer a redeeming force.
Yet I have found a way
To console my day
To turn my winter years
Into May.
I look to poetry
In its magical world
And find words
Which give life to my soul.
While writing I am free
So very briefly
from daily Angst
from memories of a past lost.
And I hope again for a new May.
When at my computer
I find the path
once covered with grief
to live now in the present day.
autumn horizon
golden leaves float
on icy puddles
More at https://twitter.com/Haikuintraining.
summer’s end
tumbleweed on the beach
cold rain clouds
More at https://twitter.com/Haikuintraining.
Longevity is everybody’s business, how old are you,
have the pills, don’t forget
the blood pressure. Have your lipid profile done once
a year for good measure.
Be sure the sugar is not high, but if your hair is white, then you
will be blackening it, all the night.