January “Haiku”

seems like I am missing our willow at Montgomery Farm

maybe we need to plant one here.

—————————-

January’s hair still

the willow tastes frost

its clothes at dawn

 

wispy cloud beards

float pensively

on the absence of breeze

 

Jack waits behind

the curtains of dusk

to break his curfew

 

ready to paint whiskers

in invisible ink

for dawn to reveal

 

the five o’clock shadows

lengthen time

beyond prescience

 

the quiet hush of birds

awaits the nightingale

the spoor vanishes

 

closing curtains now

against all the cold

where’s the kindling?

 

January’s child shivers

under clarion stars

no room at the inn

Willow

A summer evening sat on the back door step at Montgomery Farm..

From there I used to watch the willow with her moods and look at the plough constellation.

——————————————————-

the willow hangs still

leaves on a gallows,

she is pensive tonight

 

the proud rooster

senses the dusk

and returns to his cage

 

Norah the bat

soars in the pendant twilight

looking for mangoes

 

the bridge of sighs

blows smoke rings

perfect circles, of knowing

 

a fiery red tulip

seals up her lips

and crosses her legs

 

night falls on the grass

down, in the meadow,

feathering dusk

 

wondering of the dew

now so long forgotten.

how sweet, was its taste?

 

with comb now in hand

she pulls out

all of the knots of her life

 

an actuary of no

the cells so very forbidden

and , only by her

 

the willow hangs still,

leaves on a gallows.

she is pensive tonight …

The Hooded Man

hunting echoes

in a canyon

with a ceremonial

drum

 

wearing an overcoat

of shadows

belonging to

someone else

 

seeking a river’s tears

under a willow tree

being coy with carp

and an egret

 

wobbling with

the newborn deer

in ignorance grass

on poppy meadows

 

where remembering

brings no opium

not for ghosts

or djinns

 

counting cherry stones

piled in perfect balance

a heap of Sakurai

in the making

 

a sandwich of Satori

rice paper fine

and as delicate

as dew

 

the dawn chases away

echoes and shadows

and walks daisies,

petal footsteps in the stream

 

tickling toes between

washing scales

as the sunlight

twinkles

 

the mists yawn

the trees sway

dancing mirror ponds

shimmer sequins

 

the stars stretch

their cosmic arms

teasing the hair

of night’s sky

 

and now even echoes

chime no more

Pie Jesu in the snow

as a lamb sings

 

frolicking with buttercups

and dents-de-lions

shorn of shadow coats

and now naked

 

no more soul

to clothe him

not now

not ever

 

the land of shadows

fades misty fast

without meals

or succour

 

and diamond eyed,

glinting galaxies,

he pulls up his cowl

the hooded man

 

… … hunts no more

Quiet “Haiku”

Kate Bush wrote “50 Words for Snow”, I simply love how a fresh snowfall muffles everything. Out in the countryside it is even more excellent.


 

the hush of an Eskimo

whispers winsome,

felt dressings in the snow

 

the caress of rain

on grass verdant is

a most soothing tincture

 

even the silence

has no echo to it

and each second, sublimes

 

tense shoulders shrug

for the want of it

the yearn of so many, years

 

a calamity now calmed

with now no wind

puffing into sails

 

a feather caresses

as time ceases

any, audible ticks

 

cotton wool soft

a whispy cloud

wandering, still pensive

 

oh those decibels

of  the quiet

sound so very, loud

 

a heart pulses

but not in vein

to breathe yet, in winter

 

my willow tree

now, braids her hair

and coyly winks

 

and now the pillows

call so  pregnant

for my brow

 

soon the quiet

will pull up the duvet

close my ears…..