Haibun – Tenacious Perennials – April 15, 2020

Haibun – Tenacious Perennials

When I arrived in Italy in 1970, a lot of the reconstruction had already taken place However, sometimes behind a bunch of new buildings bombed out shells still existed. In my 7th floor apartment in Savona where I lived a year after my arrival, I looked onto one of those bombed out hulks from my kitchen window.

memories of war
ghosts lurking behind homes
dragon’s teeth

After the twenty year reign of Fascism and the war that was the fruit of that political choice, Italy was a mass of rubble. Its economy was non existent. Its people downtrodden by crippling poverty. And yet, Italy arose from its ashes and each citizen arose from the dragon’s teeth to become many pledged to rebuilding the nation.

dragon’s teeth
scattered upon the land
seeds

Stone upon stone political battle after political battle, through corruption and the Mafias of various sorts, Italy arose from the ashes and rebuilt its bombed out cities. The Marshal plan helped of course, America was generous since Italy had the strongest Communist Party outside of the influence of the USSR. Above all though was the will of the Italians to overcome their century long poverty which pushed many of them into being the beggars of the Earth. They could at last dip into the wealth of the world.

seeds –
planted in poverty
sprouted by fiat
watered by children’s tears
tenacious perennials

gsk ’20

The destruction of Covid-19 on the nations is of a different entity. I don’t like to think of a disease as a war because I don’t like the way politicians are flinging that word around.  Be that as it is, although things may not be as they once were, this too will pass. The protagonist of this haibun is Italy … but with variations it could be any country.  Nations are not what the politicians would have us believe ..  they are really people living together trying to do best they can.

 

Lost in Their Love – Ghazal – December 26, 2016

You’ll never get to meet them as friends, they’re lost in their love
War has hidden them behind burnt windows, now lost in their love

Mismatched, brown and white, they stood together
Hidden, alone she birthed in a pantry a son, lost in their love

They stood painted as crimson sinners by howling butchers,
Palmless mobs stoned them, they were, lost in their love

Unmarked grave (no vowels nor consonants) was their fate
Because they were different, they were lost in their love

This poet’s tears still fall now as I think of their end
The fanatic’s hand felled them – they were lost in their love.

 

THIS WEEK’S WORDS come from “Ghazal for White Hen Pantry” by Jamila Woods: brown, friends, white, palm, born, burnt, consonants, windows, unmarked, sins, paint, pantry

Rosamunda and The Wayward Light – Fantasy – November 23, 2015

 

 

hill side villa

Through the foggy mist … a light filtered from a certain cavern near mountain pass.  The cave was not far from a cliff.  If one was not careful one might fall into the murky abyss being lost forever, even if perhaps not dead.  And nearby there was a village, which few had ever seen.

Many had travelled from far and wide to unravel the secret hidden with-in the cave.  Some said the light was holy, other’s demonic.  There were those who were sure that is was just a natural phenomenon – like the ebb and flow of the tides … but is that really natural or isn’t it a sort of magic. However, the point is, though many had gone forth to unravel the mystery, none had returned with the solution, and eventually it fell out of the memory of humanity.

Our heroine, who didn’t know as yet that she was to be a heroine, had been gathering berries in the woods when the fog suddenly came up.  This wasn’t new to her as she had found herself in the fog innumerous times before…

But now, let me tell you something about her before we go on with our tale.  The village was in a far northern land ruled in peace by women.  The whole country had once been ruled by women until a dark force had come up, invading the land from the south.  Now many of the towns and villages and most of all the capitol had become the dominion of men and their dark passions.

Granny was the village wise woman and she, Rosamunda her apprentice. She’d been chosen the day she was born, because she had a tiny red birthmark on her bum – usually these birthmarks are strawberry shaped but hers was different, it was shaped like a star.

The mid-wife when she saw the star sent word immediately to Granny, who ran to the cottage where Goody Morghan lived and had given birth to the babe.

“Let me see! Are you sure it’s the star?” whispered avidly Granny.  She’d been waiting a very long time for this sign and had begun to doubt she’d live to see the day of this special child’s birth.

“Aye, Granny … and you did well to come right away, it’s already beginning to fade already.”

Granny took the baby in her arms and then flipped her to see the birthmark.  The midwife was right of course … the star was fading, which was also a sign, in these dark times, the Great Mother protected her chosen ones.  She gently gave the child back to her mother, who began to nurse her.

“Her name will be Rosamunda and she will come to live with me when she is weaned.” said Granny.

Goody Morghan smiled down at her daughter who seemed to be in ecstasy.

“Rosamunda it is dearest Granny! Of course you will come often to see how she fares?”

“If it doesn’t cause problems, yes.”

And so it was that Rosamunda grew and thrived, and when she was three years old she left her mother’s house to live and learn with Granny, whom she considered to be her own grandmother. She was quick to learn the names of all the beasts of the woods and their languages, all the names of herbs and their properties and best of all the song that tames the dark passions that live inside men.

Now, many years later, Rosamunda walked through the woods in a fog that had suddenly come up without warning.  It was her birthday and she’d been gathering berries for her feast meal which she and granny and her mother had been preparing for days.  This birthday was a special birthday.  She would be eighteenth and therefore a woman in every respects.  Her own true love would be found and she would have a home of her own … and perhaps a daughter one day to carry on her line.

She saw the light filter through the woods and stopped surprised.  Of course she knew where she was but had never seen the mysterious light of which the men talked as they sat around the fires in the summer evenings. She’d just thought they were fireside tales or men’s tales, she’d never thought to one day see that light herself.  She also knew that this was a particularly dangerous part of the woods when the fog was up.

A blackbird began to sing: “Rosamunda, fair and brave, wise woman of the red star, gather together these juniper berries from my tree and put one in your mouth and the rest of them put in your pouch.  Thus you will be safe from the noxious odours of the wayward light.”

And so, Rosamunda gathered the berries and put one in her mouth and the others in her pouch and walked onward.

A roe came walking calmly towards her and said: “Rosamunda, dearest of friends to the woods and beasts, cut a staff from this old oak under which we stand.  It will protect you from the illusions of the wayward light.”

And so, Rosamunda cut a branch from the old oak tree and fashioned for herself a staff and walked onward.

A large brindled cat jumped from a large stone beside the trail and said: “Rosamunda sweetest of maids, I am Brynhildr, your familiar and ally.  We will walk together and face the darkness of the wayward light.”

They followed the light up to the cavern where it flickered invitingly.

“Dearest Brynhildr, how can this be darkness? Look how warmly it glows!”

“This is an enchantment brought from the south.  It seems fair but indeed it brings only death and heartache.  It was a light like this that toppled the last Good Queen from her throne and threw our beloved land into the passionate love of war.”

Then they became aware that just before the mouth of the cave a young man was lying near death.  Rosamunda found him very handsome in his green cambric shirt and tights and felt the warmth of love run through her.  A bow abandoned by his side meant that he must be a hunter.  His eyes stared into nothingness.

“Oh, Brynhildr, what is wrong with him?”

The cat went over to him and smelled him, butted him with her paw, then turned to Rosamunda and said: “He has been poisoned by the odour of the wayward light.  Only one thing can save him … juniper berries.”

So, Rosamunda grabbed two berries from her pouch and crushing them put them into his mouth.

With a gasp, he sat up and his eyes focused on Rosamunda and thus fell instantly in love with her.

“Oh, loveliest of maids … you’ve brought the forest into my soul once again when I thought I would no longer walk upon this earth.  My name is Adelhelm.  What is your name that I may thank you and ask you to be my own true love?”

Brynhildr meowed restlessly … and then said to Rosamunda, “There is no time for courting! Now is the time to end this evil in our woods! Have the man fashion a bow from this ash tree and you fashion three arrows.”

And so Adelhelm cut a branch from the ash tree and made a strong long bow  and with the strongest twigs Rosamunda fashioned three arrows.

“Now crush some of the juniper berries and rub their juice onto the arrow heads and along the shafts of the arrows.”

After Rosamunda had done this the cat said:  “Now, place two new berries in both of your mouths.  Do not talk nor answer any questions you may hear nor look directly at the wayward light for if you do you will be overcome by the darkness even though you walk with the staff!  Enter before the archer with your oaken staff before you, it will help shield you both.  Now tell him all that I’ve said and tell him to tend his bow ready to shoot whatever — no matter what it seems to be — that comes towards you with these arrows. Mind, anything at all!”

So after explaining everything to Adelhelm and placing the new berries into their mouths she rose her staff and began to walk into the cave.  Adelhelm followed, his bow tended.  A soft sweet voice asked who they were and they remained silent … then a roar like a lion shook the cave and demanded them to identify themselves but they ignored the request, though their hearts were now pounding with fear.

The light flared and began to come towards them.  Inside the light was the image of an old man in white robes carrying a platter of fruit.

“Come, my dear guests, let us feast this new day of prosperity!  I offer you wealth and fulfillment, only eat of my fruit of plenty.”

Adelhelm shot his first arrow into the vision which instantly disappeared with a rumble.

Then inside the light came the vision of a beautiful woman.   She too was dressed in faultless white and she held in her arms a golden pitcher filled to the brim.

“Today is the day of redemption … drink from my pitcher of wine which will give you hope. security and happiness. Just drink of my wine and noble truth will fill your souls!”

Adelhelm shot his second arrow into the vision after a moment of hesitation. This vision too dissolved into nothingness.

Then a third vision appeared.  Before them stood a mighty Warrior King dressed in golden armour, a great flaming sword in his hand and he began to loudly remonstrate them saying:

“Who are you to attack my envoys who have come offering prosperity and hope! Know now, that  I am the Truth and The Way … I am the Defender of all that’s holy and the Propagator of Wealth and Happiness … I am the Light and the Mighty Leader of all men!”

Adelhelm lowered his bow, enchanted by the powerful image.  Rosamunda stood with her oaken staff before her hesitating as she saw Adelhelm waver. Brynhildr realizing the peril her charge was in, she began loudly to caterwaul which shook the cavern to its roots, attracting the vision which raised its sword to strike the cat when suddenly Rosamunda began to sing the song that calms the passions of men.  Adelhelm in surprise shook himself then, lifted his bow and sent off his third arrow which planted itself into the great warriors heart saving Brynhildr and dissipating the vision of the Warrior King.

Before them bloomed the horrors of the vision of war, a mountain of skulls,  bloody bodies laying in row upon infinite row, motherless children being beheaded and women being raped, burning cities and towns and the marching of endless files of soldiers singing battle hymns, carrying numerous flags and robbing anything on which they could put their hands.  The howling was terrible and the stench of decay would have killed it was so terrible and a huge cloud of flies and crows filled the sky.

Then the vision disappeared and the smell too leaving a burnt out candle, no larger than a seed.

Brynhildr said to Rosamunda: “Now, crush the last of the juniper berries and pour them over the seed that it might never become fecundated in this land.”

Rosamunda, Adelhelm and Brynhildr returned to the village and told all to Granny, who wrote the tale into the book of knowledge.  A great feast was held for Rosamunda’s coming of age.  Soon afterwards Rosamunda and Adelhelm celebrated their allegiance.  Rosamunda one day became the wise woman of the village and had three lovely daughters, but without the sacred star upon them (that child would be born elsewhere and is another story)  and what of Brynhildr, well Brynhildr lived for many many more years advising her ally and had many kittens of her own – three of which attached themselves to Rosamunda’s daughters.

The village still exists, you may have passed nearby it, without knowing this because it is hidden from the world of darkness and war, awaiting a time when humanity will tire of the wayward light of war and will seek peace.

© G.s.k. ‘15

226

 

The Sunday Whirl

OctPoWriMo Day 20 (Amberous Light) – Trimeric – October 20, 2015

Amberous Glow

in a cavern an amberous light
shimmering ghostly shades – set off the night
chilling whispers echo all around
reminding me of lives long gone

shimmering ghostly shades – set off the night
the cold dank cavern came alive again
as here a battle rages and men meet their death

chilling whispers echo all around
lamenting the shortness of life and love
all wasted for a king’s avidity and his “noble”  cause

reminding me of lives long gone
this place lies hidden – haunted by useless war
but no noble king or sultan ever shudders – now or then

© G.s.k. ‘15

This is a scheduled post, since today I begin my trip to Padua for my son’s graduation.  Thanks for reading this post.  Georgia (Bastet)

Trimeric

Trimeric \tri-(meh)-rik\ n: a four stanza poem in which the first stanza has four lines
and the last three stanzas have three lines each, with the first line of each repeating
the respective line of the first stanza.
The sequence of lines, then, is abcd, b – -, c – -, d – -.
There is no line length, meter, or rhyme requirement or prohibition.

Inspired and written for: Prompt Stomp- Week 3 and

The Berlin Wall – June 29, 2015

fall into history
with each sullied tumbling brick
unite a people
the war finally over
after fifty years

© G.s.k. ‘15

“Nothing feeds forgetfulness better than war…. We all keep quiet and they try to convince us that what we’ve seen, what we’ve done, what we’ve learned about ourselves and about others, is an illusion, a passing nightmare. Wars have no memory, and nobody has the courage to understand them until there are no voices left to tell what happened, until the moment comes when we no longer recognize them and they return, with another face and another name, to devour what they left behind.”  

― Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Shadow of the Wind

War has always existed.  It seems that what we call “war” even exists in nature and so isn’t exclusive to humanity, though that’s been said.  The horror of human war is the cruelty we put into it and the illusion that as superior beings we are above nature, thinking reasoning creatures, but in fact we are those animals that have used our special capacities to create the tools to make war one of the worst holocausts that the earth has ever witnessed.

Nationalism, born in the 19th century with all its shades of ideology blighted the 20th century with a nearly constant state of fratricidal war.  Much of the inventiveness (and our resources and energy)  went into creating some of the most terrible weapons the world had ever seen, and not happy with that, we’ve carried our inventiveness into the 21st century with new and even more destructive forms of warfare.  Some will tell you, and they are correct, that many of our important medical finds and some of the most useful instruments of our advanced form of living (like Internet) came about thanks to war.

The Berlin wall  is the symbol of the conflict which was born at the end of the so-called “Second World War”.  In my opinion, the “Second World War”, never actually ended until the Berlin Wall fell.  The war continued, under a different face with different main characters, becoming truly a global war … “cold” between the major protagonists who never directly attacked each other but very hot and terrible for those who fell under their influence and were armed and goaded into killing for them.

Mankind will perhaps overcome its destructive infancy one day, if the species doesn’t destroy itself and the planet, if we will recognize its face, if we will admit to ourselves that we are capable of horror, insanity, cruelty for no other reason than promoting an idea or someone’s greed.  We are children with destructive toys and no adult to teach us how to share the playground.

War has always existed. It seems that what we call “war” even exists in nature and so isn’t exclusive to humanity, though that’s been said.  We’re just more inventive.

a wall
symbol of endless war
one brick fell

© G.s.k. ‘15

For:

Carpe Diem Time Glass #33 The Wall Berlin

A Thin Red Line — June 26, 2015

shooting blind
who will die who will kill
no one knows – they shoot

where is the sense
what makes them better than me
or me better than them

is there an answer
maybe hidden in a bunker
where no grenade explodes

where are we going
where ever have we been
did we ever really live

look around
leaves growing green in spring
life blossoms

the sun warms the earth
filtering through the trees
the wet earth – a sweet perfume

they tell you to shoot
kill your enemy – then weep
when you shoot up a school

fear, envy, blindness
we walk in the shadow of evil
and close our eyes

blinded by blood-red light
we no longer see that we’re one
part of a whole

We are
lost … lost

© G.s.k. ‘15

WITT.
We were a family. How’d it break up and come apart so that now we’re turned against each other, each standing in the other’s light? How’d we lose the good that was given us, let it slip away, scattered, careless? What’s keeping us from reaching out, touching the glory?

The Thin Red Line

 

Only the Maverick – Free Verse – October 14, 2014

Definition of Maverick

Google

The Maverick

Goad them onto the turf of battle
Hew them in their youth
Write your initials on their tombs
Solemnly march on by …

Only the dispised maverick
Stands even half a chance
To wriggle through the mesh …
Nimble as an eel he goes
Setting his own cadence …

Society’s pathological goals
Teaching everything and vise-versa …
Waxing eloquent it convinces
The people to sanction death …

Goaded onto the turf of war
Hewn is our youth
Write your initials on their tombs
Solemnly march on by …

014d1-octpowrimobadge2

1. Cadence 2. Maverick 3. Nimble 4. Turf  5. Initials 6. Pathology 7. Waxen 8. March 9. Eel 10. Vise 11. Goad 12. Hew

Mindlove’smisery’s Menagerie – Wordle

To Whom the Goblets of Blood – Sonnet – October 5, 2014

by Brenda Warren

plus:    melancholy, death, renewal, harvest, change (for OctPoWriMo)

In the name of whom should we speak,
to whom raise these goblets of blood?
This is a broken melancholy age
though to some vital, in a sense .

Here lie, strips of blank sheets of paper,
the would be ravaged end of a poem
meant to be a speech, had I written it,
for the season of death – which we call autumn.

Is it possible to change our course …
to harvest love instead of regrets and horror
connected to that whore, we call power ?
Ah – in the eve of my aging existence, I despair.

In the name of whom should we speak,
and to whom raise these goblets of blood?

(c) G.s.k. ’14

Sunday Whirl

OctPoWriMo – Prompts for Day 4 (Protest Poem) and Day 5 (Autumn)

Before the Battle Began – Shadorma-Acrostic – October 2, 2014

A Shadorma and Acrostic

armor

Before the Battle Began (Shadorma and Acrostic)

good king stood
admiring his knights
tall and bright
in the night
before the battle began.

and he thought:
“I reign in God’s name
and these souls
these servants
are mine to use as I choose.”
before the battle began.

the crows flew
over the battle field
awaiting
the ending
of man’s folly to conclude
without platitudes.

Brave were the knights
Ere the battle began
Forthright and true
On their horses so smart
Ready for combat
Eager to fight

The king
Honored and
Elegant

Bowed to his men
And hailed
Them smiling
Thinking of victory
Loving his power
Ere the battle began

But the corpses soon lay
Evilly deformed
Gone was the joy
And
Nothing was gained.

014d1-octpowrimobadge2

Morning – Haiga – September 21, 2014

This haiga, which I put on this blog page today, is part of 30DOH (though I’ll write another lighter one for Through the Eye of Bastet) … is born from my former post of a photo I used for Silent Sunday last week.  Commenters suggested that it had the makings of a poem or a haiga  (so I wrote both) … it’s also a second answer to the Tale Weaver’s Prompt – which this week was based on a song by Metallica – One – which always affects me very deeply.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

winds of war gather
fires are burning in their breasts
mothers weep at dawn

(c) G.s.k. ’14

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

the newspaper’s glare
their front page banner
“the enemy marches
the bad men are killing
save our mighty nation
keep our life-style pure
god’s on our side
no one can stop us
people give your children
to the cause of peace”

… and the king was in his counting house
counting out his money …

(c) G.s.k. ’14