Terza
Rima
Mapping
Dedicated to
the Romanian students, the perennial winners of the
International Geography Olympiad
I long to see the planet through your eyes
Which both to fathom and to love have learned
Using the steady compass of the wise.
For your sharp glance, that leaves no stone unturned
For truth and beauty, nothing is too deep
Nor far too lofty; nothing awed nor spurned.
If a volcano rises from its sleep
Or unknown riches hide into the sea
The fruit of Terra’s toils is yours to reap.
You’re drawing maps with care, for minds to see.
And, even as your dreams reach for the skies,
You also sketch the earth which is to be.
I long to see the planet through your eyes.
Mixed
Genre
Refound:
a Short-Verse Trilogy
Tetractys
Book
Bonanza
Lots
of books
found again:
Silently we
Hug like friends who can share far more than words.
Lanterne
Stamp
Collection
Stamps:
My key
To the world
Hasn’t rusted
Yet.
Lune
Grandfather's Archive
His notebooks:
meaningless words touch
my heart’s strings
~~
Thalassa: A
Haibun
This year
he won’t see the sea
Bending with
difficulty to pick up a fallen pen, he thought just how
difficult it had become, in his situation, to fend off the
second half of the thought.. That second half could be: “…or
ever again” or perhaps just “…and for many more years to
come”. He had always waged war against the idea, tenaciously
and successfully, so he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
He rose from the chair, made a few tentative steps to the
bookshelf in the other side of the room and managed to grab
the book he wanted: a book about the sea nearest to him, the
sea which he had seen the most and whose waves had caressed
his limbs since his childhood. Yet the book spoke about a
portion of the coast that his country had lost-in the
intricacies of the World Wars-and which had become
inaccessible to him or his parents before him. Therefore,
another world opened before him: exotic, but with a touch of
the familiar: something his and not his at the same time. He
decided that sitting on the floor, just below the window,
and starting to read in earnest would be the least painful.
After a while, emotions overcame him. Again, it was hard to
determine whether the characters reminded him of someone he
had lost, whether a twist of phrasing struck the wrong
chord, or whether there was just too much “sea”. For some
reason, Poe’s “Raven” came to mind, and he prayed for
assistance, for an angel. As he did so, he grabbed the
window-sill and managed to stand up. Without any logical
explanation, opening the window proved less difficult than
in the previous few days. He looked outside, his glance
stumbled over the majestic Citadel Hill, and his prayer was
answered:
Bound to
give a start:
Murmuring like the sea waves,
The first cool breeze.
