Sketchbook John Daleiden, US

 

Free Verse The Dancer And The Dance I have a mistress . . . I hope you do too! She comes and goes all hours of the day and night. Sometimes, she wakens me at dawn and begs me to walk with her just as morning birds begin to sing. My mistress is a songbird too; she loves to croon love ditties softly in my ear but other times she sings the melancholy blues. My mistress has many moods— she can be gentle as a mild Spring day, or fierce like a tornado in Kansas— she is a Four Season Vivaldi celebrant— she is a delicate spinner of gossamer webs connecting night and day with grace . . . a dancer, whose movement illuminates troublesome abstraction with clarity in a warm turn of her dainty wrist. My mistress is my muse.

 

Haiku twilight rain— a roost of robins crowd the apple tree red maple leaves drift in abandoned sandals morning dew the jack pole pine— a doe and her fawn in forest shadows bluebirds squabble for cherries a cloudless sky ripe mulberry tree— traffic on the street slides to a stop yellow walnut leaves swirl on September breezes blue skies quiet grace arching high over the field white ash tree birches bowed beneath the ice and snow— a pheasant calls autumn gold concert of whispers— quaking aspen trees my prairie house in the shade of a bur oak deer drink at the brook

 

Acrostic Riddle Inside my leaves are precious thoughts. Among these reflections are the most secret memories of my private acts and deeds. Annotations in various inks abound my margins. Burning has often been my fatal fate, or confusing the masses with contradictions, obliterating the truths of earlier ages, kennings for a new age that soon too will fade. Overnight I rose to the top of the fiction list in the New York Times. Then I was forgotten, replaced with a new current rage of profound ideas, drowning in a waterless pool under a hot, copper, summer sky without recourse to a proper burial or the rites held holy by contemplative men. Know now that I am a book of truth.

 

Acrostic Eye Play Enough of puzzles! now if you want to make inside jokes, then you must hide me good clues right before my sick mind because I am unable to appraise words that bore me to death. "Eye Play" contains three puzzles; the first is a simple acrostic; the second is a telestick based on whole words instead of letters; third, the title contains a pun.

 

Triolet Bouquets John Daleiden, US I give to you my pledge of love— Red roses bloom in my garden. Let us in bliss eternal live. You gave to me your pledge of love: In both our hearts pure trust does lie! Oh! Shameful deceit! Our bargain— We have broken our pledge of love— The roses dead in our garden.

 

Triolet Autumn Aubade* In Autumn rain you went away with no kiss or words of fare-well; the day was dark—the sky was gray in Autumn when you went away your anniversary bouquet— twelve roses on the window sill left behind when you went away with no good-by—I fare thee well. * a love song sung at dawn

 

Fibonacci After Drought And Harsh, Humid Days we slip slowly from summer’s luscious, tight embrace into shortened days and cool nights, awakening at dawn to dew filled grass where deer feed.

 

Fibonacci Sequence There Is A Presence who walks garden paths scented with her own delight, a sprite of my mind, rare, sublime, demure— my Ann

 

Cinquain Harvesters Young deer standing alert between fence row and woods blend with the brown, laden cornstalks— waiting. Just Before Frost I pick the last apple in cold October winds— through wet orchard grass Venus guides my feet. Renewal love tryst in gold moonlight— all night our long embrace, a feast cut short at dawn's morning harvest Día de Los Muertos Portal between seasons: with harvest riches stored we light dead souls to their sweet rest . . . candles Let Us Pretend To Be Royalty  Goblins come to my door— a prince and his consort dance a ditty for their beggar's sweet fare. After The Leaves Fall I hear bare tree branches  whisper at windy dusk— prelude to the fall of winter snow flakes. "To Silvia Let Us Garlands Bring" . . . and all  her delights fill  the fantasies of young  roués sequestered in dark rooms  alone.

Shanzi January Thaw from the gray skies a dreary day rain remnants of snow melt to autumn green in these colors lurk the silent thrust of hyacinths The Marksman in the garden the lark sings to her listening from afar he hears their airs oh, spiteful love— his arrows strike with cupidity In This Time Of Discontent  winter garden drifts with new snow the sparrows peck dried red sedum blooms like the sparrow my hunger grows with your absent hours. Prayer For My True Love be unlike her beloved lady my milky white pearl be a pure gem unlike the moon— an inconstant, fickle shape above Eulogy For The SAGO,  W.VA. Coal Miners* below the ground in coal, black darkness through sunny days coal miners toil in one bright flash their fate is sealed breathing deadly gas *January 5,2006

 

Tanka mornings at seven I check the clock and the mirror— no new face lines— in the garden Spring tulips wilt from yesterday's sun. Does the summer rose know your bright beauty outshines Solomon's diamonds? Come, my sweet gardenia bud! Unfold and spread your fragrance. in early morning your peach blossom scent lingers on my lips— I wake in the empty bed on sheets still warm where you slept under the new moon a bat skitters through bare trees All Hallows Eve— even the witch of Coos woos her man but does she love him?

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