November Prophets

In November the sunlight
dapples over dead leaves
wind rustles memories free
storms sweep tombs, unearth bones
beleaguer dead valleys to awaken
an exiled Ezekiel’s breath:
“The end is not night
Sleep is not death
Your seed-borne husk betokens
Jerusalem’s dawn is nigh.”


For dVerse’s MTB this week, Frank asks us to write a Jisei (Japanese Death Poem) in either a haikai or haikai-esque form of ten lines or less. Click on Mr. Linky to join in!

Spatial Encounter

Hubble Telescope Image

I am not averse to reimaginations
Given you walked out of my conversation
As a noetic effect of its distillation

I am not chained to inharmonious juxtapositions
When salubrious angels gather in celebration
Of a desire prayed and given manifestation

I am simply thankful for your gravitation
Towards me, bindingly, irradiate sub-atomic fusion
Where once I envisioned only solitary annihilation

Yet this I wonder, and this in never-ending fascination
How in moments your eyes gray meet my brown it’s recreation
Of a space-time-matter continuum of conflagration

For dVerse's "Poetics:Look into my Eyes"
Click on Mr. Linky and join in!


By the Fence

Every day I see her there
child by the chain link fence
imagining friends and school games
her mouth forming an O at the clouds
as if they were breath-formed
to shower the blighted with dreams
dragons incinerating fences
between a million small figures
as time passes like wind over grass,
blown green now brown,
while the limitless sky watches
unblinking.


dVerse Poetics #428, “Poetry as Witness”: Frank writes, “So tonight poets, let’s bear witness in our local neighbourhood.” I chose to write on the harm that is being done to our children during this time of enforced social isolation.

Check out Mr. Linky and join in!

The Monk’s Vision

The Monk’s Vision

Aloft a brothel’s barge
with two beside
liquid lines processional,
embowered golden scents,
stood a painted courtesan
as in a vision the monk saw.

His chanting fingers trembled,
as if her subdued scarlet figure
were of a bride, pink as dew,
whom he had left to follow
the path of his enlightenment.

Fearful he took a closer look:
the vision turned, her gaze obsidian
and chill his blood like the Yangtze ran
his visage grayed like the Changjiang Plain
where she for him in dishonor won
his pellucid peace with her forsaken cries.

He made as to rise, prostrate to sink, reverent,
but she her glance of saber-scorn withdrew
and looking behind at her companion true
whispered, “There sits a saintly hooded fool!”


For dVerse’s MTB, synesthesia is the name of the game and I thought I’d add a bit of ekphrasis to it to spin an operatic tale. Be sure the check out Mr. Linky for more offerings in this vein.