A Gourmet’s Soul – Free Verse – November 17, 2014

StillLifeWithOystersLemonAndBeer

Jose Fernando, Still Life With Oysters, Lemon and Belgian Beer

 

A subtle mix is a gourmet’s soul
His palate is his most erogenous zone –
To taste fresh fish an orgiastic event
That yields great sighs and lingering smiles –
With hints of toasty bits of bread and wine
You’ll have good sex with him anytime –
So don’t despair my darling girl –
Buy him fresh oysters and abalones …

(C) G.s.k. ’14

 

Sunday Whirl words: lingering, fresh, tends, palate, hints, sex, yields, toasty, soul, mix, subtle

Red Wolf Poems

Sisters – Blues – October 6, 2014

Sisters (Choka)

sisters sing the blues
tell your stories one by one
as you walk along your path
don’t hide anymore
humiliations and joys
strength and darkest depression
sisters sing the blues
don’t hide away in limbo
let your voices be heard – sing
you’re backbones of life
talented – full of creativity
don’t wait to be freed – be free
sisters sing the blues
I know the troubles you’ve seen
I know you’re something – don’t you
raise your voices – loud
sing your lonesome blues and shine
only you can change these times.

014d1-octpowrimobadge2

Written for Carpe Diem Haiku Kai and OctPoWriMo

We Wordle – To Cecil The Pig – Memento Mori -Sepember 28, 2014

To Cecil The Pig

Ah – when I think of you dear Cecil,
I feel myself fall into a trance …
‘Tis hard for me
To keep track of all the hours I stayed with you.
Emperor of your kind …
The fine bristle of your hair,
The lovely look in your pinkish eyes,
And oh …
Your immoderate love of popcorn..
Alas in the end
‘Twas the bane of your existence!

How fair you were … so that still now,
I think of you.  ‘Tis true … your odorous
Effluvia was something to be forgotten …
But –
Your exultations … your appreciation,
For the food I brought you each morn,
Was one of your saving graces!
Alas – how they’ve rendered you.

Yet … dear Cecil,
You’ll still be with me for a time though.
Through this sublime offering we now enjoy,
We do not forget and indeed, we thank you,
For this lovely bacon that accompanies our eggs.

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Accompanying the wordle (words below) at Red Wolf Poems  is a beautiful post (just click the link to read it) … with an invitation:

“… this week, let’s think about writing a memento mori poem. Memento mori (Latin ‘remember (that you have) to die’).

purpleinportland: trance
Irene: track
Jules: skin
Christopher: emperor
Misky: popcorn
Barbara: bacon

Sunday Whirl on Monday – September 8, 2014

dismal, thrust, meandering, ball, horses, rose locks, spot, plant, bullets, signal, edge

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The Hunters

on a dismal rainy morning
in a spot near the channel locks
meandering among the roses
came a group of hunters on their horses …

though a rainy autumn day
they thought it would be fun
to fill the world with bullets
on the edge of the darkened woods …

at a signal from their leader
they set the ball a rolling
they thrust into the glen
with their rifles and their dogs …

no plant nor creature was safe
from our modern happy hunters
they shot a stop sign full of holes
to test their lovely glocks and rifles.

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Yesterday morning I heard the first rifle shots.  Hunting season has begun here in my area and though we don’t have horse riding hunters we’ve got some who shoot stop signs in frustration.  There’s little to hunt.  Small birds mostly.  But nothing stops the hunter … even when they shoot each other.

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The Tree House – Minute Poem and Shadorma – August 30, 2014

zoomed tree houseThe Tree House (Minute Poem)

The magic land of childhood dreams
Delighted screams
Come to my mind
Now left behind …

In this tree house was happiness
Sweet loving bliss
Where children play
Throughout the day …

Worlds created from fairy books
Calm loving looks
Ne’er a bad word
A perfect world.

(Shadorma)

Innocence
Childhood happiness
Princes and kings
Princesses
With happy ever after
As the ending line.

Written for Mindlovesmisery’s Menagerie

Georges Seurat – Poetry Prompt #15 (Artistry)

Georges SeuratPointillism

Credits: Philadelphia Museum of Art

Grande Jatte – Credits: Philadelphia Museum of Art

Dots and more dots
Impressions
Of light and color …
Inventing pixels
Long before the thought was thunk
No digital camera
No fancy electronic app
Just brushes
Paint
And patience!
Georges Seurat:
Pixelventurer par excellence
Creator of vibrant worlds
Using just
Dots and more dots

Les Poseuses - Credit: Barnes Foundation, Philidelphia

Les Poseuses – Credit: Barnes Foundation, Philidelphia


This was written for Oloriel’s Poetry Prompt – We Drink Because We’re Poets

Carpe Diem – Ghost Writer #13 – June 18, 2014

Today Kuheli’s Ghost Writer post is written about a haiku poetess, Chiyo-Ni or Fukuda Chiyo-ni (1703 – 1775).  Here’s some of what Kuheli has to say about Chiuo-Ni:

She showed a childhood gift for poetry and had already gained fame for her haiku while she was still a teenager. Her early haiku were influenced by Basho and his students, though as a haikai poet in later period she developed her own unique style but her verses were mostly dealing with nature. In later period of her life, around 1755 Chiyo-ni became a Buddhist nun.

 

On the post there are two examples of Chiyou-ni’s haiku, one given by Chèvrefeulle in his introduction and the other by Kuheli:

taoraruru hito ni kaoru ya ume no hana

the flowering branch of the plum
gives its scent
to him who broke it off

© Chiyo-Ni

 

suzushisa ya / suso karamo fuku / yabu tatami

the coolness
on the bottom of her kimono
in the bamboo grove

© Chiyo-ni

 


Now I will try to write in the style of this great poetess:

sweet wet grass
cooling sore feet
of the weary pilgrim

soft silk robes
whispering as she walks
among the roses

jasmin perfumed air
after the rainstorm
petals on the ground


For more information on the post please click Carpe Diem Haiku Kai – Ghost Writer # 13 Kuheli

For a selection of poems written by Chiyo-ni pleas click HERE

 

 

Scars – June 16, 2014

Hidden in the citadel of my heart
behind a lost wayward smile,
that flashes all too readily,
like a neon sign …
a honking laugh
warning of an alarm
since it has no home
but inside myself …
the castle keep
of memories
where ancient scars
of pain
are kept inside the dungeons,
too ugly for the light of day,
have made me
who I am
a woman, though watching tigers rend
the lowing sheep
looks at the harmony
of zen.

My feet have trod many paths
from hunger to war
abused by some
lost and forlorn
in a world never my own
out-of-place in this great city of life
depressed and stressed
abandoned …
but I found myself
wounds healed – though scars remain …
I look not to the ugly ghetto of hatred,
retribution means nothing to me
and flee its desolating poverty of the soul
seeking the richness of harmony
to inspire my remaining years …
reneging the game of fear
and its power to destroy
I walk a path
of simplicity
seeking the small joys of life.


This was and is a particularly difficult prompt for me.  I could talk to you more easily of the scars from my gall-bladder operation I suppose, but I’d like to work a little more on why I don’t blast the world with anathemas and hell fire which so many do.  Neither do I enjoy writing in the tones of sobbing lamentations.

I really do believe that if I can’t change the world around me, if I can’t make people be fair, honest, loving, unjudgemental and all that good stuff, then I’m wasting my and other’s time trying to do so.  To me being combative is combatting inside myself the tendency to be unfair, dishonest, unloving, judgemental etc etc.  And the battle is arduous, believe me.

Written for WDBWP’s Poetry prompt # 12 – Scars

Distilling Shelly – Heeding Haiku with HA – June 11, 2014

western autumn wind
mover of dead leaves and seeds
winter harbinger
brother of the rich spring wind
wild moving spirit – hear me

western autumn wind
high in the streams of steep sky
bringer of rain and lightning
your dirge mourns the dying year
through black rain and hail – hear me

mover of great seas
summer dreams quiver in waves
near Baiae’s bay
furious wavy chasms grown
they fear your voice – hear me

to be leaf – cloud – wave
or wild youth as once before
once your free equal
listen to my sore plea – I’m chained
no longer swift – tameless – proud

play my soul strings
my song, your tune of autumn
quicken my dead thoughts
scatter my words among men
spring will soon return


Shelly’s “Ode to the West Wind” is a plea by Shelly to the western wind,  harbinger of autumn to free him from the chains of his present life, which has lost its spirit and sense of free spiritedness,  in order to permit him to enjoy once again the freedom and vitality of youth.  He concludes with the hope that his poetry…his words no longer downtrodden in melancholy, will quicken mankind with his prophecy of life’s cyclical renewal.

The distillation of such a poem in haiku, though probably possible is far beyond my talent or skill.  Here I’ve simply transformed the poem, into 5 tanka to follow the original 5 stanzas of the poem.  It was written in iambic pentameter following the terza rima form for the first three lines of each stanza with a couplet at the end of the terza rima (the first and third  lines rhyme  the second line of the terza rima carries over into the couplet) . The rhyming scheme is ABA BCB CDC DED EE.

Here’s Shelly’s poem:

I
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave,until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear!

II
Thou on whose stream, ‘mid the steep sky’s commotion,
Loose clouds like Earth’s decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith’s height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear!

III
Thou who didst waken from his summer
dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae’s bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave’s intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic’s level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

IV
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O Uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne’er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

V
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened Earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?


Written for Mindlovemisery’s Menageries – Heeding Haiku with HA