Wednesday, July 26, 2017

Finding A Sanctuary

FINDING A SANCTUARY

what is a sanctuary after all       is my idea of sanctuary             the same as yours’       

harbor of refuge                       a port in a storm                       will you walk with me         

in a quiet mountain meadow                a field of wildflowers               a quiet room                           

the idea of quietude                 gives way to music                   soft and low

                       

or bells                         tinkling on a cold morning                   a hiding place              

unseen by intruding eyes          last light of day             just beginning to get dark                    

a blanket to curl up in              a safe place to be alone            public or private

a cave                                      home                           a temple by any other name



in memory i return                   a sunny day                              in los angles                           

i had taken the bus                   downtown                                got off 

uncertain where I was              walking down the sidewalk      a temple appeared                               

the sound of the gong               reassured me                            a sanctuary found

July 23, 2017                                                                                                              



Monday, July 24, 2017

Haibun Monday

How I would have liked to follow the footsteps of Basho.  Would he have liked to follow mine?
Footsteps in the sand, in the snow, in the leaves, across the meadow, I follow behind.  You loved his words, and Issa’s too.

They step from the screen, and become “real life.”  In Japanese kimonos, of red and green.  With golden threads that catch the light.  You can see them there sitting on the hillside, creating poems, under a sunny sky or by the light of the moon.



The master reads his poem
The student follows with one of his own
The grass hopper looks on






Note:  I'm sorry but I didn't follow the rules.   I wasn't sure what was supposed to have 44 words?  My little paragraphs had more than 44 words, and my haiku had less.  But I wanted to participate, I bow and ask forgiveness.  And ask that you accept my attempt.

I didn't use a word to indicate summer, but the grass hoppers come in summer.  And I didn't know what the "cutting word" was?


  

Sunday, July 23, 2017

THE UNBORN CHILD

you catch a glimpse of     the unborn child    running in the background                

she is on her way            moon beams light her path        she comes from the 
                                                                                                      sea

in her pocket is a string    tied around her finger                and today's post

a small blue letter            carefully penned within             is her name



nothing else                    all that she is                  and all that she will ever be

is carried in her name      her mama waits for her             it is a time of bliss

she slips out of her sandals        to walk in the sand       pink grains between 

                                                                                                her toes

she dons her wig-hat        and pinks her lips            draws on her face

a new mask  shakes the sand from her feet         delighted as she looks 

                                                                                       in the mirror

July 23, 2017 

Note:  I have combined the words from Sunday's Whirligig and The Sunday Whirl.  Not all the words spoke to me....but I give myself permission to use only the words that resonate in this moment.  The other words I will leave and let others find a place for them in their poems.

The idea of the unborn child came from the movie, Daughters of the Dust, one of my favorites.  The movie creates a scene, of the what is happening just before the birth...and in the background you can see the unborn child running, coming to the place of her birth.  The unborn child narrates the scene. 



"Languid look at the Gullah culture of the sea islands off the coast of South Carolina and Georgia where African folk-ways were maintained well into the 20th Century and was one of the last bastions of these mores in America. Set in 1902." (This is a description of the film from the Daughters of the Dust site.)