Haiku
the fire
fades in a dying wolf's eyes
new moon
mid-autumn
festival in Toronto...
the full moon and I
between
whiteness of sky and earth
a black hearse moving
first
snowflakes…
squeezing another poem out
of my mind
my Bruce Lee
dream
fades in a spring breeze...
Tai Chi moves
the smell
of damp summer grass
her moon face
those
eyes
of a cornered dog...
starry night
Haiku
Sequence
Zen
Mind
Zen
class...
the rectangular shape
of blue skies
the humming
of an air conditioner—
zazen
between
the ticking of the clock...
scent of Chanel
fleeting clouds
at an autumn sunset
why zazen?
Hertory* of Love
rocks
under the melting snow
last love
moonlight
through spring rain clouds
her eyes
her hair
spilling over us
summer stream
harvest moon
floating in our glasses
her mouth on mine
her ashes
vanishing into the sky
first snowflakes
Author's Note: *"Hertory" is a
new word coined in the late 1960s, referring to history
(re-stated as "his story") written from a feminist perspective.
Tanka
at the far end
a dark green sea
kisses azure sky—
I stand on the shore
of an autumn dusk
I waste
my life away thinking
about her touch
that entered my dreams...
one poem after another
I see
myself in a child
playing
hide-and-seek with himself
under the scorching sun
loneliness
wears a T-shirt with passion
written in red...
snowing outside
I finally feel at peace
waning blue moon
my forty-seventh New Year's Day
I still fail
to become a phoenix
a heap of embers...
seeing
the mid-autumn moon hangs low
over my attic
I'm in the mood to take bites
out of loneliness
I ask God
how could this happen to me?
Eve
is a spear
wedged between my ribs
I am
dead
if I were an African
unemployed
a fiftyish American
gazes at the hazy full moon
for you said
you would come and see me
I wait under our tree
bathed in leafy shadows
night after night
Tanka Prose
If on a
Summer’s Night, a Sojourner
neon night
in Yonge-Dundas Square—
alone
I mingle
with faceless crowds
Everyone
looks like they're connected to someone or something:
talking on their cell phones, or growing plastic vines
attached to tiny iPods from their ears. Still, others
are steely-eyed, mouth-set and concentrated on getting
where they are going.
in Toronto
the meeting place
I've nothing to do—
one two three...
people pass me by
Author's
Note: The origin of the name "Toronto" comes from the
Huron word toran-ten, which literally means meeting
place.
Three
Ifs by a Would-be Tankaist
yellow leaves
whirled by the wind
struggling in mid-air...
my tanka is conceived
at the sight
I, too,
dislike it: too short, too understated, and too
difficult to write. But, it gives me joy if read, pride
if published, and assurance if paid. After all, I
discover in it a hiding place for my feelings.
shades of memories
fly about, collide, and land
I pick them up
and put them to rest
in the grave of tanka
