Fluttering bulb
the last dregs of tea
being poured
A book I wore out reading
the pitter-patter
in the sparrows throat
Tag: short poem
Making Tea
Lightning!
Breaking through night clouds
A paper fan,
Here the smell of things
Our pillows, the dregs of rain
All in a kettle.
Day Light
On the sundial
I find no directions
Lotus pond
Turned golden by a fire
Hidden by the monastery
Here and there
Yanked from the clothes line
The sound a sheet
Becoming thunder.
Lost at last
In old grown forests
And the sound of streams.
Graduation
Like bare branches in the wind.
What a lovely morning it’ll be
With the sun shining.
What an evening to dread,
While we’re graduating,
Far from and free of
Home.
An odd season
A year’s frenzy is over.
Green waves wash,
over resting feilds.
The dull cold speaks-
All poems have their seasons.
LanguidÂ
Wipe away your tears,
Reflect in your emptiness.
Clean Paper
A serpent slithered besides me
Demanding paper with every step.
I had plenty I thought,
And gave a page now and then.
Blank paper; what is better
Than to spoil it? So he was fed.
Soon we reached my door
And what monster did I beget
Now slithering across my floor?
Diaspora
Life’s a door
I cannot open
My thoughts are worn
My words are gone.
I come from a place
small and obscure
I can never leave it
I loved the clouds not the skies.
Dream Pillow
I woke to the quiet night,
grabbed my pillow and
shuffled the dreams inside.
