Haiku #575

575.

A concerned monk told
Samurai, too serious
A man is no joke.

Revolutionary Sky

Skies with deepening greens,
It seemed our worlds had
Turned upside down; seas
Became skies and the skies
Were the sea. No longer
Walking a coastal path,
But somewhere else, no
Erosions, a few other walkers
Enjoying the weekend air,
A jogger in slow motion,
A cat in the woods carrying
A defibrillator pack on its back;
These sights still exist somewhere.
In those clifftop woods we passed
By houses being built, an estate,
With huge Buddhist statues and
Tannoys set to play meditative
Canons while we counted beads
On our japamalas. Then back to
The coast, a dip in the cliff,
A ghost village, where miners
Lived with their hopelessness,
The seams stretched out
Under the ocean bed and which
Are now like cloud-tunnels
In a revolutionary sky.

I found you in a lounge where
Purple wallpaper was decorated
With motifs in black. A room
For the living they called it.
No wonder I felt uncomfortable
In my own skin. You wore a dress
With a crinolette made from
The wishbones of whale and
Eagles’ nests, and overlaid in
The very same purples and blacks
As the patterns on the wall.
You shifted into blueness,
Then exited without a trace;
In my waking day I’m found
Wandering these apocalyptic
Streets and revisiting a sky,
Still here underneath its weight,
Just where you left me.

Haiku #550 – #554

550.

July downpour, and
My neighbours are jet washing
The empty bins.

551.

Inexplicable
Feelings towards these people.
I am a stranger.

552.

I saved a spider
Today; may it be enough
To karmically

553.

Repair me, before
It’s too late, if I spared a
Thousand dark spiders;

554.

Because I worry
These days that I am beyond
Saving, regardless.

 

A Peatland Fire

Fire on the heath!
Flames are fanning heat
Inside a famished tiger’s teeth;

His cinder-lolling tongue
Tastes borders of grass parched
On the levee-surrounded

Island retreat, home to
Nightjars also known
On southern moors

As Goatsuckers, bizarrely,
Crespuscular-loving Roe Deers,
Adders in the reeds

And hawking Hobby Birds
Through longer summers sleep.
Bog Moss grows here too,

Bitter Berries for calming nerves
And promulgating peace
Across the prairie-reserve

Of my mind,
Where passions conspire
And ego confined.

Impunities of fire,
Merciless tiger-like intent,
So he contemplated dharma

In a higher monastery,
And mementoes from markets
Still selling today in Tibet;

Untrodden Himalayan
Glaciers will repent
And retreat from his breath,

Untouched by well-worn piolets
And crampons, where violets
Cling to the crags

Like old thoughts,
Geranium perfumes
And bright patchouli,

By the prayer-side sight
Of my Lama,
I caught a momentary odour,

And then the fire subsided,
A tiger’s stripes defeated
If not forever the tiger.