Japanese Short Form Poetry 2016 - 2017
Page 6.
"We shall never understand one another until we reduce the language to seven words."- - Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931)
Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine © 2007-2019
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
sunlight scatters
through the branches —
shapes of diamonds
at a haiku reading —
the ring of tram bells
filling the pauses
(cattails June 2016)
by Diarmuid Fitzgerald
longest night
I settle for stars
by Daya Bhat
rain on the mountain -
the winds
and I, quickening
cover of night -
in the tall grass
a whispering
the clasp
of hands -
first day of school
by Lysa Collins
by Elizabeth Crocket
sultry night
a breeze stops
at the curtains
by Adelaide B. Shaw
hard frost
your footsteps crack
the silence
overnight snow
opening the door
to silence
by Rachel Sutcliffe
bumblebees hum through their only spring
a persimmon sunset ripens the cold
by Jann Wright
Red Bricks and White Stucco by Deborah Guzzi
Inside the crumbling stucco walls of Mission Dolores, walls which
do little to keep the soot of San Francisco’s traffic from the ancient crosses, the air steams with the scent of moss and mold. The century old graveyard holds many wealthy benefactors on Holy ground.
The spirits of Yelamu Ohlone Indians haunt: behind, beneath, and
between the spaces of their unmarked graves. It was a sad day for the village when the Christ worshipers came with their tales of crucifixion, flaming hell, and the shame of naked Eve and Adam. God-like, they came to judge.
behind the alter
brown hands paint a mural:
white washed walls
From the bounty of the land, they had lived in harmony, fed on roots,
berries, nuts and wild life, their ways teaching of man’s place with nature.They were clothed, schooled, worked, and punished by the emissaries of Rome.
they shake the oak
and acorns fall upon the ground:
the sound of saws
Even today, it is the Vatican which takes credit for raising up of the heathens. Yet, it is the artisans of Ohlone who built Mission Dolores. Upon their unmarked graves, white feet still walk.
All the Pretty Little Ponies by Deborah Guzzi
After: The Fool on the Hill by Paul McCartny
Enthroned in a sylvan wood, the carousel reigns, a queen among the visitors. Blurred images flicker behind gargantuan sheets of plate glass in an artsy garden home. Mirrored eyes fool the unwary with reflection. Like St. Catherine’s Wheel without the sparks, the old gal spins around at the docent’s summoning. Hidden cogs and wheels mate within the calliope’s heart. Brilliant brass works raise and lower fierce or flamboyant creatures as court begins. Yet, the carousel would give it all up to feel the blaze of sun or touch of rain beneath a turquoise sky. Do you hear the bellows umpa as the music starts?
a sign outside reads
do not walk on the grass:
a gardener prunes
Sustained by love, her horse’s race on golden, spiraled, poles, chasing the ostrich, frog, or deer; never letting the cat come near. Though instate, she daily waits for little ones who squeal for joy—to leap on the pinto or plop-down in the old green gilded sleigh.
In her missed notes, in the crackle of her panes, a sense of longing for days long gone resides, carnival days—caramel apples, cotton candy, and taffy, for the buskers play, for the roaring twenties when women were sassy. Yet here, she sits assigned by design encased at The Heritage Museum of Art.
Art on the Bart by Deborah Guzzi
She sat on the Bart. The subway whooshed on swaying like a fine woman’s hips. Red was a picture of perfect imperfection. Her bike chipped and cherry-red as her fingernails. We got on at Mission and 25th Street. Her complexion, peaches, and cream, defined her as au natural. Her dress’s skirt draped between elegant knees, a circle of fiery-red polka-dots on a white ground. She made an impression. She was a work of walking art and kindness leaked from her every pore.
the smell
of sweat and perfume:
fans whir
I [a fish out of water in her wake] asked the way to my stop. Her elegant hands in fingerless, red, wool-gloves shifted atop the black trash-bag covered seat of her ancient bike. She braced the frame against the seat stanchion and looked up smiling.
"I’ll watch for you, It’s hard to see and too much noise to hear.”
I glanced down at my matronly sneakers, beside her caramel cowboy boots. Feeling a bit lost but safe with her Pacific-blue eyes reassuring me beneath honey-colored bangs. She was a vision of unkempt loveliness, this aide to wandering mothers.
The cars stopped and with a point, she shooshed me off the East Bay train, never telling me her name.
Kissin’ Cousins by Deborah Guzzi
The escape began. It was the summer of nineteen fifty-nine, the “good old days.” Dad packed my sis and I in a 1947 Lincoln Continental, he called Black Beauty. We were off to the land of Peyton Place, Camden, Maine. The drive from middle-class suburbia’s ticky-tacky house took eight hours. We went north on the highway; then down small feeder roads. Dad drove as we whined in the back seats, our faces flushed, curls matted to foreheads. The seat covers of gray wool itched our scrawny thighs. We only stopped the leg-cramping journey for bathroom breaks.
small stones ping
of the chrome bumpers –
cows low
My Aunt’s ramshackle chalk-white farmhouse finally appeared up the dirt road. It looked lavender in early evening. Uncle Ken was there too but he didn’t rule the roost, Madonna did with her worn, black leather, razor strap and silver its buckle. She was no lady, but she was our Aunt, raised with Gramp’s bad temper. Her face was always looked as if she was sucking lemons. (Grandma saved us all by hiding the razor strap.)
squeals fill the air
as the car empties –
dogs bark
Oh, how we adored Uncle Ken. Yup, Uncle Ken had charm with his sweet smile and Chiclet- white teeth, beer bottle in hand. His concrete company hat cocked to the side. He worked days at the factory in Rockland, nights and weekends on the farm. He was one long, tall, strawberry-blonde, drink of water. He was Prince Charming to us little girls. He called me Snow White and my sister Goldilocks. His only rivals for our affections were his sons.
Gorgeous George, Georgie-boy, first cousin, was my first love. Yes, it was summer. School was out. We had fields full of wild strawberries, cows to ride, haylofts to conquer and a house full of kissin’ cousins, what more could two little girls want on a summer vacation.