Survival Strategy

Survival Strategy
(A Shadorma* Sequence)

long shadows
(morning’s light is dull)
but by noon
they shorten
hone their merciless edges
threaten to sever

stay at home
read a mid-day book
draw the drapes
close your eyes
walk only under starlight
avoid the cutlass

RDP Thursday
~ Long Shadows ~

*About Shadorma Form



Tsuki-koru – the moon freezes

new snow buries sound
deep in forests no birds sing
—winters never end—

Poets And Storytellers United
Weekly Scribble #53
~ Beautiful Words ~

Other tantalizing options offered this time around from Bruce Hamana Sosei’s book, 100 Beautiful Words in The Way of Tea included the following:

>> Zuiun – clouds that predict good fortune
>> Shitamoe – plants sprouting under last year’s dried grass or under the snow
>> Hatsuyume – the first dream of the new year
>> Uzumibi – buried fire
>> Ryokuin – green shadows (sunlight filtering through green leaves)
>> Hotaru-gari – go searching for fireflies


I’m on an October hillside, dreaming
about what summer used to be like;
about brunettes, walking on the beach,
their brown eyes not much darker
than their suntanned bodies, the sun
not much brighter than their smiles.

But it’s Autumn now and I’m far away.
I can smell cedar burning in the distance,
hear a breezy aria through sycamore,
and savor the burble of a mid-day brook.

I have been here before, been here
in this same exact spot in every season:
when the sun baked the drying grass;
when the snow drifted into the hollows
between the hills; when the last few
leaves, reddened, fell, and sailed down
to the perfect place that I now call home.

dVerse Poets Pub
Poetics Tuesday
~ Connections ~

(Thank you Merril, for encouraging me to create & post Revision # 5,253,544 of this poem…)


Thanks But, Umm, No

Thanks But, Umm… No                                  (144 words)

Mostly I write poetry, though I’ve been known to eke out a halfway decent flash proser every now and then. Sometimes some decent verse comes out of my stream-of-consciousness, no-line-breaks-allowed Morning Pages, banged out before I’m fully awake. And sometimes prose stays prose.

Only rarely am I pleased with flash prose developed from a prompt, though. But I always try to give it a try.

And I always know, right off the bat, if the prompt is (or isn’t) going to do it for me. So when I read the Prosery Monday Prompt at my favorite writers’ spot, a line from a Mary Oliver poem (‘Sometimes the great bones of my life feel so heavy,’) I knew it wasn’t going flip my switch.

I decided to just read and comment on my fellow writers’ contributions, and work on something from my Works-in-Progress file instead.

dVerse Poets Pub
Prosery Monday
~ Bone Weary ~


The Truth About The Moon


The Truth About The Moon

You think the moon’s a kite to count on
when the wind won’t blow. It’s up there
and you watch it float, soar with stars
most of which you don’t know by name.

You’d like to reel it in, bring it home
for a cup of tea, let it sing for you until
the sun comes up to steal your heart.

But the moon’s a hunk of rock, not cheese.
It’s never been a compassionate beacon
gazing down benignly at abandoned souls
in search of absent, long-absconded lovers.

All those things are just words we say
to make us feel less like we do:
that we are lost as well, that we drift,
as silently as the moon, alone.

Poets And Storytellers United
Writers Pantry #53

Sevenling (the rain thinks)

Sevenling (the rain thinks)*

The rain thinks it rules, that it can
outlast and drown me; that I will
forget how to tread water, swim.

But no rainstorm can last forever.
Torrents come and go. Floods recede.
Sooner or later, everything dries out

I will reclaim my sunshine.

*Not familiar with the Sevenling form? It’s one of my faves. You can read all about it HERE. (Fair warning: Addictive)

RDP Saturday ~ DISSENT

Both Either And Or

Just over the ridge, first thing in the morning at the beginning of The Year Of The Great Silence (if any silence can be great),” he wrote as soon as he settled in at the keyboard, and then paused, realizing that “great’ had so many shades of meaning that he might consider a rewrite, using some other opening (even though he hadn’t even finished his first (apparently unsatisfactory) sentence, but decided against doing so because (he reasoned) either everyone would know exactly what The Great Silence was and when it had begun or they wouldn’t, in which case he would trigger their imagination and send them on a journey whose only possible destinations were either Total Enlightenment or The Eternal Void, neither of which were of his making and both of which, he knew from personal experience at the keyboard this early in the morning, could occur simultaneously.


Its glaze is gradual, from blue to green,
with none of its fired brown clay visible,”
he would have written in his journal
if he’d remembered to bring it along.

He attempted to focus his attention
on some of the other antiquities
exhibited there for his perusal
on the shop’s display case glass.

But the crucible, which might have held
an emperor’s ashes ages and ages ago
—or might someday hold his own—
refused to relinquish its command.

Its perfectly ancient sheen, reflecting and
amplifying the shopwindow’s meager
almost-evening sunlight, called  out:
Choose me. Choose me. Choose me.

dVerse Poets Pub
Meeting The Bar
Personification & Imagery