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Shan-zi
Poem
Sandalwood
Incense rising
above the candles
Three monks meditate
in calm of night
Crescent moonlight
enters window,
meeting smoke and flame
Haiku
flurries at
night
flakes glitter
with the stars
blizzard’s
wind
pushing drifts
shifting landscape
Free Verse
The Artists’ Long Weekend
It was supposed to
be
a day off from the squabbles,
from the debates on right & wrong
and the five stone pillars
of Western Imperialism.
Saturday I like you best,
you leave your texts behind
and Naomi Woolfe is kept
in white sheep’s cloth,
talk of apple cobblers,
chocolate sprinkles,
as deep in thought as we’ll ever get
but not today:
You battle greedy parking meters,
wage war on 10 cent hikes,
relive the Russian Revolution
and complain of cookies
looking better than they taste.
Let us leave the bakery,
I say in reckless suggest,
offering to whisk you
to splendoured heights
and the flashing bulbs of theatre.
You counterpunch,
and the Museum it is,
old relics left to rust
behind colored Chinese glass,
and sculptures chipped & shorn.
We’re the only ones here,
we slump and sigh,
with nothing more to see,
our disappointment
bouncing off the walls
as van Gogh in a straitjacket
would have.
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