Daily Haiku XV: Closed

it reads:
The heavy curtain
Its sheen reflects my lamp light
Night peeks through the glass.

Gold Smoke and Blue Fire

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
Breath, with intoning of each word
Of resonating air in song
No pitch, mere syllable is heard
This music's echo to prolong;

The clay itself is humming, ringing
It shows its perfect instrument
In its ready silence, singing
I am here, I shall be sent;

A wisp of heavy smoke begins
To roil and make effluvium
In rose-laden odor ascends
Strand by golden stand unspun;

And the cool and dancing light
As the Zeon upon the Cup
Smoke by day and fire by night
Now blue-bright is rising up.

Then in a flash we both return
And we are standing somewhere else --
Then repair, O rise and turn
With voice of iron, the call of bells.


Copy Pasta

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
When you begin to suspect
That the rigatoni's wrecked
It's copy pasta.

When the elbow macaroni's broke
No need to have a stroke
It's copy pasta.

When all the meaty ziti
Is shaped like some graffiti
It's copy pasta.

It makes fuseli straight
And removes lasagna plait
It's copy pasta.

If the radiatore is all cold
The stovetop isn't old
It's copy pasta.

If your ravioli's flat
Don't begin to blame the cat
It's copy pasta.

It's not pie-a-la-mode
It is spaghetti code --
It's copy pasta!
a postscript is here written:
The duplication of enriched macaroni product may lead to typographical and logical errors, not the least of which is bad analogies between computer code and food.


Deficient Fish

Daily Haiku XIV: Goldfish

it reads:
A lost fallen leaf
A season too old, but look
A bright fish instead.


it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
The steelgray shimmer
of the reservoir out of winter
Into green the leaning trees
Find with time their ease
And my car driving by
Has let the purple fly.

The rolling old road
Line-faded in morse code
In the evening of the day
But my eyes for certain
See but the purple curtain.

Dun-streaked fallow fields
Await furrow for their yields
Redbud and dogwood muster
A strawberry-creme bluster
But over and over my mind
It is the purple-time.

Black draws soon like a haze
Topsy turvy sun's declining rays
Lazarus rising for a season
Another year we've been leasing
Then sudden as a rope's slack
The purple turns to black.


Daily Haiku, XIII: Match

it reads:
Scratching a rough box
Percussionist I become
Though fire I'm making.

The Thinker and The Thought

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The trouble with thought
Is what it's not ---
It's not easy, nor breezy
Like a spring afternoon
But it even if you will
It's loath to stand still
Even for a moment -
It's difficult - impossible to own it
Might as well write it down
But you can't if it's flown
Keep a journal a lot
But that's the memory of thought
What! But so is memory
Memory isn't not thought you see
Thought about a thought anyway
It's almost free energy
But not; It blocks other things
It ties experience with strings
Which is to say it's not
- not exactly free - that's a lot!
It can stop thinking, realistically
That's called 'ideology'
So it isn't it's own friend
It isn't inflexible, but doesn't like to bend
It isn't blind to what's true
But often truth it doesn't pursue
And if thought has so many blinkers
Imagine all the trouble with Thinkers!



it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Pity, shall we name our enemy
For the cruel it makes their anger mild
But for us it is a path of shame
Prevents our rifts from being reconciled;
It is not emotion of a civil man
Who knows each person is a living soul
For him it turns man back towards the beast
A cycle that can never make him whole;
That mercy needs not pity should be clear
For one who knows the truth about his state
Needs no show of tears to move his hand
No wound to help the man outside his gate;
The liberal these days is crying out
His heart it bleeds for things he cannot change
His pity soon will make us bestial
To familiar and to the strange;
When you pity you show your magnitude
If you are a monster great and dumb --
God pities not, he merely reaches out
And suffers long that man at last may come.


Daily Haiku XII: Showers

it reads:
In time like music
The thunder announces rain
We wash in rhythm.

The Many

it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
The longings and feelings connect
Though it is a strange tesseract
Half fractured web on which
We still often feel a twitch;

By this we begin to recall
That nature shared by us all
Not mere category
A common reality;

Adam's broken bones lie
Beneath the same shifting sky
No longer can make them whole
From the body departed the soul;

A new blood can yet make him live
But it is not one we've to give
What remains from where we have fought?
In us all there still lingers thought;

A day-dream of cool afternoon
A memory of the coming-soon
A desire to be but remade
A longing for corruption to fade;

We all still do not understand
About blood, about flag and land
We still believe that less is more
As though to birth we abhor;

And in this desire to decrease
We wait for death's slow release
There will be ever more men
But we shall never be them;

Ecology is not for the scarce
A language we cannot yet parse
Of all the non-separate things
Not merely the bird that sings;

Man thinks to remove his own
Man thinks to leave Earth alone
But here is a word for the wise
Body with no head? It dies.



it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
In the aftermath we see, what do we see?
A cloud has grown about our sight
A loud silence, where none agree
But nothing is actually said aright;
This city, made by hands of men
By the might of arm and wheel
Is set to night, is lost within
To begin again the senses reel;
While strength has saved the many maimed
A moral strength that still persists
The head at length, sickness has claimed
It forgets at all its body exists;
While those of us who yet read the book
Recall a loss of limb as well
Than to with wholeness to have to look
And breathe the everlasting smell;
The smell of death! But beyond the bay
We who watch from other lands
Remember anew, and recall the Day
And the City Not Made By Hands.


The Blaze of Glory

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The blaze of sirens rushes loudly by
Blue and red now flash amid the wood
Light and sound appear so suddenly
And pass as quickly as sudden mood.

Morning invites a contradicting thought
Forget the old -- and embrace the new
But the new is here a sleight of hand
It is the old but made anew again.

Novelty which man esteems so great
Is not other than a flashing car
Innovation, Originality
Creativity goes just that far.

But the open circle of the morn
Renews the same, an ever-driving run
Drawing first the Moon into the Earth
And then at last, the Earth into the Sun.


Daily Haiku XI: A Fine Balance

it reads:
Days which are perfect
Between the mild sun and clouds
Leave room for crisis.

Sonnet IV, "Return"

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Return, they say, should bring the rains again
A collection of the winter's discontents
Liquified, cold held them all the same
Till under cloud they grant us recompense.

What did we do, we all must wonder now
To deserve so rich a reconciliation
There is hardly days enough just to allow
Us to discern anew our reprobation.

If call of thunder was ever to be heard
I'm certain that now we would be listening
But quiet murmurs, a distant passing word
Whisper with the streams that now are glistening.

An omen then, a wiser man than I
Could in these boundless signs perhaps espy.


Motor Vehicle Administration

it is addressed thusly:
A 'ode'
it reads:
A cue of cues, and I think the news
Could not penetrate our perturbation
Day or night, can't guess the hues
Electric light our sole stimulation.
Not that we were mad, nor were we glad
Nor comfortable were any the benches
All slightly ill, as is the fad
An overspill of lads and wenches
For wheels I think, they spill the ink
And become but a designation
To wait the more, to nod and blink
And not snore in resignation.
Music is piped, so the mood was typed
As if even it was data-entered
And some there, once having griped
Had their own fare, were somehow centered
Between coughs and running-offs
To visit the proper restroom
The numbers accrue, amid our scoffs
To renew our certain doom
Doomed to wait again, And then to send
A clerk to retrieve a clerk
Until at last, the chain must end
With a plastic card for all our work.


The Sage Checks the Weather

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
The cold comes back, though they still say
The oceans will rise, tomorrow or today
But the meter sticks lie, or don't at all
Hard to know, unless you make the call
And who else can know such anymore
When SCIENCE IS DEAD, men can ignore
Each journal as a provincial power
Each has its place, as each had its hour
And while the scientific method stands
And measurements can be made with hands
Yet such a concept as science lies
It is no more now than a politician's eyes
For the things he wishes were his own
While still exists the great unknown
And the ten-thousand questions stand
But if answered it will not be by man
For science is dead, says the hospice nurse
When no one would act, the patient got worse
And passed away, now for humankind
No explanation connects the act and mind
But the one he forges by his will
But it is enslaved, weak and ill
And cannot create a thing at all
Nor hardly construct a sturdy wall
Some still pretend that science exists
Its memory a thought that long persists
Its marks upon man's feet and hands
Its dreams about far starry bands
Alas, the medium filters nothing now
It recycles only what they will allow
And the they are those who bowed the head
And prayed to their science, but science was dead.


The Silent Movie

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
When riding, and the music plays
All of the city, country outlays
As a scene from a silent movie.

I imagine the text, as I read the lips
The subtle nod, the hat that tips
As the text from a silent movie.

And then when walking, A youth I see
Whose ears too, full of music be
It becomes a strange silent movie.

Has the world become all black-and-white
For him also, the gray day and night
Of the flickering silent movie?

All things pass at a faster rate
Memory of love, memory of hate
Make haste in a jerky, silent movie.

For him and I, does reality pass
From real to film through projector glass
Into our own private silent movie?

Or does instead this now roll back
The ugliness, the noise that all attack,
Soundless in this silent movie.


Solace the Rain

it is addressed thusly:
A song.
it reads:
When dark is the noon
And the river's dry again
If the night is coming soon
Then solace the rain.

When the wind is heavy laid
With the sorrows and the pain
When the sun begins to fade
Then solace the rain.

For the sun has its peace
And each star its secret name
When clouds make wind to cease
Then solace the rain.

Faith is bright in blinded eyes
And tears must then refrain
When at last the sleeper lies
Then solace the rain.


Solace, the rain may find you
Whose face is to the skies
For when the mourning one is there
The heaven with him cries
(The heaven with him cries.)



it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
The thing between the things is a thing
But also is not different from them
It is distinct, is what I think I mean
But not a thing without them.
The bank, is it the river's edge
Or is it the edge of the land?
On such questions did Socrates hedge
His hemlock inspired end;
Is it magical thinking to just admit
That some things are 'both-and'?
Or must we with precision split
Each hair down to its end?
Consider the blood vessel, marvelous
Bordered by a sheath of cell
Are the cells a blood vessel, no? yes?
Is the blood vessel cells as well?
One man says that this just shows
All distinctions are imaginary
But this is giving up, as he well knows
A rule that's arbitrary.
It was not long ago, we'd seen
That humanity is not-separated
Humanity is as much the space between
Each man as he is related
To the other man, 'as male and female'
It was of old said that we were made
Solitude's great difficulty a tale
That now seems trite and staid;
Perhaps because we believe Sartre
But now we've lost our thread;
Of dusk and twilight to night and day
Of neck to torso and head?
The truth's as simple as it is a bother;
All things simply overlap
And the overlaps overlap each other
The fact is as simple as that.
The boundary of a thing grows deep and wide
The more complex a thing it is
A truth of complexity that's simple and snide
And apparently, simple to miss!
a postscript is here written:
III: In a living system, A thick boundary is a kind of interchange zone. Where two zones, lying side by side, have their own integrity, it is not enough to have a sharp edge to separate them. In many cases, and especially in cases of living systems, there is a need for exchange, interchange, flows passing across the boundary, subtle kinds of filtering, places where interaction of the elements coming from either side can take place.



it is addressed thusly:
A thought.
it reads:
It follows man as a long shadow -
As a tail longer than an ape's;
Does he see it as he looks out the window
Does he see it where the sky gapes?
Wherever he looks it is behind a step
Behind a tree or a roadway sign
It hides where things are all kept
Waiting patiently for its time
But yet when surely it befalls him
Man takes the whole thing for surprise
As bad chance or grim omen
As though he has forgotten his eyes;
Grumbling at his sore misfortune
Looking for medicines to halt the pain
Praying only that it will be over soon
And trying to forget it will come again;
It is small wonder then all things despite
Modern man is no better than medieval
Still drinking his folly through the night;
And all the day ignoring his evil.


Our Words

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
When I look at the words
Just yours and mine
I see them as artifacts
Written out of time.

That extra 'e',
That trailing 'y'
A compound here and there
The dipthongs are
The glides have been
Written perhaps by Chaucer's hand?

My eyes must lie
Or just my mind
Daydreaming while I read?
But some day
Yet soon will come
When they look upon these words.
Perhaps we'll lose
A letter here
And gain a letter there;

They struggle to read
As though our words
We written by foreign hand?
But we can only hope
That by and by
Our words are never lost;
Or should we say
That we pray
That keeping them is worth the cost.


Daily Haiku, X: Lights Out

it reads:
In a simple pinch
Hot coal touch, ember falling
In a honeyed wisp.

The Crowd and The Tyrants

it is addressed thusly:
A song.
it reads:
Even in days of ease I cannot escape it
This strange disease, a matter of thought
Or of conspiracies; for what is the system
But humanity's collusion against itself?

We cannot choose all, or else gods we'd be
There is at least one wall to block our choosing
We must recall what good we've given
Back to all who also gave the good.

We feel strangled perhaps by our narrow path
We fear its collapse, or that it is not narrow
Enough, and in some lapse we scramble
To perhaps make the days less evil.

The system does exist, it is objective
As men and power persist, it then must follow
As each item on a list that the politic
Employs the fist for expedience.

A tyrant is this man who is a foreign power
Though against him stand all law and truth
And who then can resist him in his time
In his hour lay hand upon his youth?

A conspiracy true must remain thus hidden
As such men knew, but had they guessed?
That in lieu of better explanation
It was what grew, hid in plain sight

So thus we name it with no small jest
For who to blame, if tyrant's true?
Be slain the same, he may as else
But return again, he surely will.

When a man must give to help another
Who then does live to make him pay
This man will strive, but strive in vain
This man will drive the man away.