Unfulfilled

40 years ago
16 flags unfurled o’er the fields
In the days after
The hard rain fell
And the thunder rolled.

Shepard and sheep
Soaked to the bone
Waiting for the warmth
Of the Sun to slide
Through dark clouds
And dry their wool.

Shuffling through the shadows
From the temple
To the marketplace
Without moving at all.

Merchants, thieves, and priests
Somehow sharing
The same space,
Thirsty for wealth, power, and praise.

Empty as a spent
Wine cask
That they desperately try
To refill with stale vinegar
Through cracked
Plastic straw.

4/27/18

My 21st poem for National Poetry Writing Month.

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Homeward Bound

On the road again
Back to where it all began,
Where it will all end,
Where it already ended
Surrounded by teapots,
Solar powered knick-knacks,
And Love.

Where it will continue
To end
As pieces of life
Dry up, die off,
And fall away
Like flakes of dandruff
In the wind.

Wind wears away
Layer by layer
Atom by atom
Leaving only
Bleached white bones
Resting near the heart
Of the valley.

River green valley
Parallel majestic mountains
That burned in the night,
Lighting the skies,
Blotting stars and Sun,
Overturning the evolutionary chain.

Now snow capped
Silent sentinels,
With the occassional rumble
Of boredom,
Holding fire,
Keeping the peace
Until the day
When everything
Will burn.

Starting out on my journey,
Through the pass,
Past the peaks,
Between sleeping giants
And down the
Fern and fir tree slopes,
Following flowing
Tributaries,
Following my footsteps
All the way home.

4/21/18

My 20th poem for National Poetry Writing Month.

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Down the Tracks

Life is not a road
On which we walk.
Roads can be walked
In either direction.

Life is a train
On which we ride,
Ever traveling forward
At faster
And faster speeds
Until we reach
Our destination.

4/21/18

My 19th poem for National Poetry Writing Month.

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Carpe Diem – a Tanka

Delicate rosebuds
Collected in the garden,
Sweet smell of summer,
Now just dried dead memories
As we all, someday, will be.

4/19/18

This is my response to Colleen’s Weekly #Tanka Tuesday #Poetry Challenge No. 80, GATHER & SOFT, #SynonymsOnly

My 18th poem for National Poetry Writing Month.

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Fragment of Verse on the Passage of Time

Days slip away
Brown hair turns gray
As a boy turns into a man.

4/18/18

My 17th poem for National Poetry Writing Month.

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The Birth of Miðgarðr

An Excerpt from the Recitation of Visions of Ðanuz, High Priestess of Jorð

Listen and attend,
Sons and daughters of
Ash and Elm,
Grandchildren of Yggdrasil,
To the visions and memories
I share and recite.
Older than all your
Gods and kings am I,
More ancient than all your cities
And all your petty borders!

I remember when
Fair Alfheim still stood
Above the waves
Of the Fomoires abode,
Before Falias’ foundation,
Or a single tunnel
Dug out by Dvergar hands
Into the depths below
Niðavellir’s dark fields.

I recall when Alßiz’s kin
First arrives in moonlight
Along the banks of the Rhun,
Long before the sons of Alßiz
Founded the cities of the north,
Before Æliz took up his holy
—If not misguided—
Mission in the east,
Before brother ßanðr fell to darkness
And Chaos.

Generations before the tyrrany
Of Aurgelmir, son of Tiwaz,
Gluttenous Ymir, great-grandson of
Etunaz the bold,
Who brought with him
The Long Winter of Blainn
From which only Woðanaz
And the sons of Borr could thaw
And retore order to the world.

I was there and saw
The Alföðr and his brothers
Raise the walls made
Of Jotnar bones,
To protect the saplings of
Ash and Elm
From the chaos and wrath
Of the surviving insatiable offspring
of Ymir’s loins,
In the garden at the heart
Of the world.

4/16/18

Notes on Pronunciation:
ß = “v”
Đ / ð = “th” as in father
ȝ = “y” as in youth.
Æ = “aye”

Miðgarðr = Mith-garth (“th” as in father)
Ðanuz = Than-ooze (“th” as in father)
Jorð = yorth (“th” as in father)
Yggdrasil = Eeg-drass-ill
Alfheim = Alf-Haym
Dvergar = D-verg-ar
Niðavellir= Nith-a-vel-ear (“th” as in father)
Alßiz = Al-viz
Rhun = Roon
Æliz = Aye-liz
ßanðr = Van-thur (“th” as in father)
Aurgelmir = Our-gel-meer (“g” as in gold)
Tiwaz = Two-az
Ymir = Eye-Meer
Woðanaz = Woah-than-ahz (“th” as in father)
Alföðr = all-fa-ther (“th” as in father)
Jotnar = Yote-nar

My 16th poem for National Poetry Writing Month.

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Coffee Shop Haiku

Chilly April morn
Chai Latte and a good book
Snow falls from the sky

4/16/18

My 15th poem for National Poetry Writing Month.

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The Feather

Feather by Justine Leys.jpg

A single white feather
Falling, flying; floating.
Ivory against an onyx sky.
Loosed from Lucifer’s wing,
Escaping un-singed
As he fell
In victory and defeat.

4/14/18

This poem was inspired by the above acrylic painting by my wife, Justine Leys. So far as I know she was just painting a feather, the association with Lucifer is just what sprang to mind when I saw it.

This is my 14th poem for National Poetry Writing Month.

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Lotus Flower Haiku

national-flower-ili-70-img-5
Lotus flowers float
Atop the dirty water
Growing in the sun.

4/12/18

My 13th poem for National Poetry Writing Month.

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Image found at CulturalIndia.Net.

The Rolling River

Bob Dylan and the ghost of Leonard Cohen
Sitting shivah on short stools
Yarmulke pinned to gray curly hair
Mourning Yossef’s son,
Who got in trouble with the law
Questioning authority
Challenging the establishment
Threatening the status quo.

Low murmured Hebrew and Yiddish,
Swaying like reeds on the sea,
Thoughts linger of sandle-less Socrates,
Served a hemlock cocktail
By the powerful men of Athens,
Condemned to die
For the high crime
Of corrupting the youth
By teaching them
To think for themselves.

The times are changing,
Time is nothing but change:
A rolling river that’s never
The same.

Leonard sits shivah
In the lotus position
Meditating mind breaths
And beneficent Buddha nature,
Serene smile thinking of
The high born privileged prince
Slowly discovering the three fold
Reality of the common world,
Informing the high born
Priests, warriors, and kings
That their stratified social system
Is a mind made illusion
Just like everything else they see.

Socratic Stoic Jews breaking bread
With Benedict Spinoza
Recalling the ship of Citium
Wrecked on the Grecian shore
Near Athens.
Loitering in Hellenic bookstores
Discovering the wise words of Socrates
That hemlock couldn’t kill,
Following the dogs to the porch,
Writing philosophical prescriptions
To alleviate the suffering
Of ill flowing lives.

After seven days
Bob and Lenny
Return the cushions to the chairs,
And uncover the bathroom mirror
As sunlight bursts through
A beat-up Venetian blind.

4/10-4/12/18

My 12th poem for National Poetry Writing Month.

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