I tried to write haiku,
My mind was filled with you;
To snowy-Sapporo I travelled,
My heart was there untrue.
My master was a death of me,
As virtuous masters do;
Little need for death now here
Within a width anew.
I brushed you with a whisper,
The living letters flew;
I tried to write haiku down
But now I write for you.
Love, how do I find you,
When lifetimes are apart.
If I’d superabilities
I would press restart.
If with just humility
I’d love you from my heart,
Love how do I find you,
When life was just a draft.
660.
Blue October rains,
How can anything be the same
Now I have a name.
661.
My ears are yearning;
All these years were slow-burning
In nautilus souls.
662.
Long maritime love;
I’ve been at sea for so long.
Rock salt, scented words.
When you evaporated from
This godforsaken place,
Something inside me
Likewise quietly escaped
Through three brass valves
Which sound the bells
Of souls and fortune we
Sometimes take for granted.
The organ stops underfoot
Created calamitous notes,
Wooden pressures of self-respect
And a better taste for goodness
Evaporated also, and pews
And candles and last laments
Lost all colour and remnants
Of purpose, and the steel sutures
Became fused into my skeleton.
I walked on ravaged plains,
Desert heat transfering
Into my bones where roads
Once flooded with yellow pelatons,
Until that fated journey
To your mausoleum, built
In the old marble museum
Of my diminishing future.
A samurai trod a path he’d chosen
To keep the peace from danger,
While love he left in dreams of a shogun
Broke his heart for a stranger.
He walked with his staff for a year and a half,
Seeking soul mechanics,
Though all he found was a constant sound
From the ancient waves’ rheumatics.
There was no art to his mission,
No destination, no learning;
Only forgoing her name’s definition
Might extinguish the flames of his yearning.
Love held his armour in place,
Sad truth when rusted by dearth;
He settled his debt with the great daimyo’s grace,
Though the parts still fell to the earth.
Along a coastal road, resigned,
I thought I saw him, ghosts apart;
Erroneous nomad, the way was designed
By those who would pierce your heart.
601.
A book is rarely
Bigger than hands which hold it;
A soul’s unmeasured.
The bigger the ego
The bigger the car,
If I had no ego
I’d not travel far
From the centre of my soul
To the brightness of a star;
The lesser the ego,
The further to part.
Two rocks fell from the sky,
One for you and one for I;
By the time I lost my ego,
I left you wondering why.
My art is fuel for my self,
It’s all about survival;
Watering plants in a drought,
Mundanity’s suddenly vital.
I wanted a different existence,
To find my higher rival;
Meanwhile art is all I’ve got
Before touching down on arrival.
Later, above that lofty shelf
Too late the dim apostasy!
Knowing I was safer below,
O art, protect my soul from me.
When a unicorn falls from the wall
Then we are all in trouble;
Until that day I’ll paint my bed,
And write beneath the rubble.
To the workers ploughing out there,
To people in the chair,
To families burnt in enclave rings
Now living without prayers,
If I could lease my grieving lung
I’d undo despots draining done;
Absorb that cancerous, bloodied lot,
For fairness growing through the rot.
There’s no mausoleum or statue,
No temples in gold or bamboo
Which can’t be uprooted or toppled anew;
We’d be unstoppable, in a week or two.
I heard my soul cry from its cell,
A muffled sound, bottomless well,
Mishearing its touch as a distant bell,
I reached from my seat, and unseated fell.
All we have suffered,
Everything we lost,
Everything like lovers,
Always came at cost.
For souls there is a bounty,
And tax placed on our hearts,
Pursued across a county,
Poets used for parts.
There’s a mountain still
Where dormant dragons wait,
To rise again in epic verse
Unbridled by our Fate.
