Japanese Short Form Poetry 2016 - 2017

"We shall never understand one another until we reduce the language to seven words."- - Kahlil Gibran   (1883-1931)

Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine © 2007-2016   P.O. Box 17331    Arlington, VA 22216  

 2016


smell of fish
in his apple juice bottle--
costermonger

                 by R.K. Singh


summer night
the moth fans
a paper moon

            (published in Frogpond 38.3)



dipping his quill
into the rainbow—
the grackle


thin ice
the moon
cracks under my feet

 (A Hundred Gourds, 5.2 Spring Issue, March 2016)

                         by Cherese Cobb



a year sober
these wine-stained
clouds


 

moth wings
what silence
sounds like


                    by Cody Huddleston




The Aria         by Deborah Guzzi
                                                                                           
                                                                                 
The room’s twelve-foot ceilings echo the sound of the drawn chairs. An arena forms about the polished onyx slick of an ancient piano. The grand’s exterior mirrors the worn surfaces of the room. The palest of yellow walls dawns around the gathering. One by one, people enter. They excite crush velvet cushions. Laughter and ringtones vibrate through the air, each sound adds to a building harmonic. The performers enter. The diminutive size of both the Chinese tenor and female concert pianist prove to us all that indeed Le grandi cose vengono in piccole scatole . Dressed in formal black and a crisp white shirt the barrel-chested male diva owns the center stage. The pianist, a shadow of frailty: a small boned, round-shouldered, glass rimmed woman a foil for his performance. With a curt bow he begins. Surprise wreaths the room as fluent, languid, Italian arias meander through the audience, kissing each closed eyelid and florid cheek.

 
autumn light
casts shadows on the floor –
laced fingers
 
The pianist curls around the keys. Her hands pose and begin. Their skilled movements lead to each silent indrawn breath of his songs. He fills his lungs. With eyes cast heavenward, his lips shape vowel sounds, his almond eyes—black-framed—glisten. A blue-black, slicked-back, sheen crowns his balding pate. All eyes gravitate to his voice as his next aria stirs the room with the drama of China. Each listener achieves bliss.
 
hairs rise
on my arms –
the last note
 
Though I had come with the expectation of boredom, I left with a smile of a cat licking cream, knowing I will come again.






wolf  ...
as if food could ever give
what hungers it
      

                 by Martin Pedersen




raindrops on windows
unremarkable moments
melt into themselves



minutiae …
tick and tock splitting
each second


                  
by David J. Kelly




estranged partners
a homey iron fence
overgrown


interests~
the strawberry patch
widens


                  by Michael Francis King




the dim room steals our
faces; slim rinds of light curl
in from window blinds




Raindrops slap the palms of leaves  




morning
swallowing itself  
 

                    by Iain MacLennan




the moon
different
anyway

                     by Judith Huang




interests~
the strawberry patch
widens



estranged partners
a homey iron fence
overgrown

                      by Michael F. King


 2017

Lightning--
       strikes
          in the bowling alley

                     by Michael Ceraolo


Dal Lake


The starless night does not take away the beauty of Dal Lake, but further enhances its mystery and depth. We marvel at its charm and the boatman tells us, ”Yes, the lake is stunning and it belongs to us. Your military or the neighbouring country's militants have no claim over it.” The previous day, an army officer told us, “We will not concede an inch to anybody. This place belongs to us.” Why do people want to hold onto something beautiful and gloat over it? With the army and terrorists destroying this land and demoralising its people, this state is taking its last breath. If given a choice, I would not prefer to possess this place. Let this state thrive as a free land. With a last prayer for the strife-torn land, I depart.


Chilly winter…
Partially-knit sweater
in her ransacked cupboard

 



The Pathway


Renowned as ‘The Pathway’, the park near my apartment attracts various joggers from the area. As I take my evening stroll, the chilly breeze pierces the Cedar, grazes through the Pines and touches me gently with the scent of the trees. The Maple tree looks magnificent and their half-hidden flowers glow in the crescent moon. I watch in awe as the shining leaves of the plum tree rustle their raw plums. The young leaves and the buds of the Forsythia emit a pleasant, youthful scent. I take in the fragrance, not wanting to miss a second of this joyful moment. After all, this is what I live for.


Moon glow
half-bitten plum
in the plum tree

                            by Padmini Krishnan



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