The haiku I would write for you
were illustrated with my sketches, watercolors or
Japanese prints I found in magazines or
postcards from that used bookstore that we
would browse, buy poetry, and read aloud.
I thought of you as my muse.
Eastern and yet so Western. Younger but
also older than me in some ways.
The poem you left on the bed
with an erotic print which I misinterpreted.
Your side of the bed
was still warm, then cold all morning,
afternoon, night, like the Moon
Looking at the old photo of you
taking a photo of me hasn’t faded
though we separated five hundred Moons ago.
Thinking of you with each daylily bloom.
Flowering, falling, returning anew and yet old.
In time, even statues fall in love.
Standing and gazing long beside each other,
you share air, sounds, space and time.
You soften. Fingers merge with hair and
gallery closed, hard edges become soft flesh.
Our first date was forty-four years ago.
At a park after dinner, you said
“The geese are all laughing at us.”
We were young. Unsure. Cautious. We laughed.
Our soft conspiracy continues into tonight’s starlight.
I read that Zelda Sayre went on her first date with F. Scott Fitzgerald on her birthday, July 24, 1918, and years later, in a letter to Scott, she wrote: “The night you gave me my birthday party … you were a young Lieutenant and I was a fragrant phantom, wasn’t I? And it was a radiant night, a night of soft conspiracy and the trees agreed that it was all going to be for the best.”
Image by Mihai Paraschiv from Pixabay
In my most black and white days,
she was technicolor. She was my Marilyn.
Our world – saturated color, a yellow road,
fantasia, music surrounded us like in movies.
Until she was gone with the wind.
A Technicolor Marilyn with gentlemen (20th Century Fox – source) Public Domain, Link
Beware the fairies on this June eve!
Though Saint John may protect your home,
if you wander into the enchanted forest,
magic, potions and, yes, Love too reigns.
Though that latter course never runs true.
The tympanal clicks in the hottest hours
counting out a song in another language.
One of mating, and not of love,
that I know well and repeat myself
in the five seven of this poem.
Two Haiku by Basho
Nothing in the cry
of cicadas suggests they
are about to die
a single cicada’s cry
sinking into stone