the long mo(u)rning

My mom comes to visit the graveyard to say her prayers.  The early November crowds have gone, and the solemnity has returned to the cemetery.  Her lips and fingers move around the rosary beads with ease.   As always, her eyes water as she sees my father's etched name on the grey plate. How each letter glitters like tiger's eyes under the dying sunset.  Though she has dedicated masses and special intentions, she wonders if he is at peace at last.   Is he still suffering or has he finally reunited with our Lord? Every night, she prays for a sign, message or a dream of my father's after-life journey.     Over the phone, I listen to her crying and questions.  I have no answers.                

snowy owl hoots

behind trees & carpet of leaves-

night is silent, starless-

Source

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- Haibun Monday, hosted by Victoria Slotto.  The theme is to

write about Fukuroo – the Owl. Owl is a winter kigo but you can write about any season. Please keep the prose to under 200 words. 

jamming to strawberries fields forever

your skin
is sun-dimpled  
luscious silk that
when
dipped in petticoats
of cream
or chocolate
or brandy
becomes honeycomb
of sweetness 

plucked-  
i hear you
rinsing under water,
paring green leaves,
& quartering your heart
to vanilla-shaped florets-
readying your
siren song-
we turn to grinning fools
with butterfingers   

popped-
tell me,
when the full moon
rises, what will
we do with all this 
juice
stuck in our mouths-
red, of the purest kiss 

Picture credit:  here

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Meeting the Bar hosted by Frank Hubeny ~  Today we are writing about ODES (Poems of praise).     Pub doors open at 3 pm EST.   

Plastic cups of empty

city is
hard-wired to noise-
music, car tires spitting

between streetlights-
most trees are half-dressed
in orange pleats with rust-brown twigs

i listen
to last kick of leaves
hitting rain-puddled steps-

it echoes 
along with 
guitar's strings of busker, filling
our cups
of solitude

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Quadrille, hosted by De Jackson ~  This is a 44 word post with the word KICK.   Join us when the pub door opens by 3 pm EST.

November

the wind is blade
of ice, cutting through the skin-
November sky is wrinkled  
in steel- blue fur & grey scarf-
the fallen leaves dot
streets in golden light & fading ink-

in the yellow-domed cathedral
the people light candles for the dead
and bring fresh flowers & rain-
soaked mourning cards
for some, the memories of departed souls
is a fleeting strain of music
light as whiff of red roses

for others, grief is heavy as winter boots 
pounding the cobbled stones
searching for signs
to go somewhere, anywhere
but this void, festering wound
slowly turning the bones to stone

i wait for sunsets
magnificent light show 
of bleeding purple, 
bristling orange & raunchy scarlet ribbons, 
thick with wild-eyed ardor
for life, ever unfolding-     

For dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - The pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your visit.

petals of kindness

The city can harden your heart due to the toil of everyday labor and from beggars who make begging their job.   So when I witness acts of kindness from total strangers in the subway train, like giving up their seats for others, it reminds me that courtesy and kindness still abounds.    One even went out of her way to console a teary-eyed commuter.   When I have a chance, I give up my seat too when needed or share a tissue or pen when asked.   I believe in paying it forward, because I too was a recipient of kindness.  Years ago, I needed some coins for my bus home and wanted to break my $5.00 bill.  The woman offered her $1.00 coin, smiling and chatting with me and didn't asked for anything.  A small token, but a precious reminder - the seeds of kindness are everyone's reach.   

whiff of cold wind sends 
shivers of winter's dread- the dead
leaves petal the soil
         

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Haibun Monday, hosted by Toni, Kanzensakura, where the theme is kindness and the prose part is 150 words or less.  Thanks for the visit ~

Vermilion

between
sun glare
and
blue haze streaked with
black lava-


you,
maddening thirsty soil-
you,      
tang of frost on tilted dust devils-


you,
lost river
with little in it
to love-




Original Text:  Land of Little Rain by Mary Austin.

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Erasure or Blackout Poetry hosted by Victoria Slotto. Come and join us when pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for the visit.

Walk with me by the Riverwood

tangerine leaf fell
not with creak-creaking sounds
nor screech-screeching seagull's cries
but with firm swish
into the river's belly,
mirror of lazy summer- 


tides gently rock
as blue sky pitches its ageless swansong


under his bug-bitten skin,
his heart was green
pasture, fluffy with cottonseeds-

Posted for dVerse Poets - Quadrille -  post of 44 words with the word CREAK.   Spent a wonderful autumn afternoon in Riverwood, a conservation area in our city.  Thanks for joining us.

Autumn

The green leaves are still clinging
to boughs
Only the sudden gusts of cold wind
tears the canvas
to a calligraphy of sticks  
beside mulched green apples
pregnant with smell of rain



I marvel the sea of colors-
greens, oranges & burnt browns
filling up the sky, with dots of
orange pumpkins, yellow corn squash-



This season is too short
much like a hurried kiss
pressed between hello & goodbye-
That space
between words,
unaccounted, yet a heavy presence- 


Still autumn never burns
deeply under the skin,
Don't leave me, ever-


Instead, I fall
rolling with the season - 
falling into the piles of dying things- 
entwining with black soil & seeds of spring- 








Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics, hosted by Kim Russell - Thanks for the visit ~

We wore black

The world at the other side, is drily chaotic but still a beloved motherland.   I have come for the funeral but it felt like a homecoming.   For myself, I had prayed for peace for my ailing father, and a comforting life for my mother and sisters who have been caring for him. He was a difficult patient who knew his days were numbered. As I arrive at the wake, the traditions of grieving made everything familiar, and  reassuring - flowers, mass cards, consoling words of neighbors and friends, and the prayers for the dead for 9 days.   

Rains came at early morning, cooling the summer-like temperatures during the day.  Dawn was reddish grey, with gloomy skies.   When the rains break, it was steady humming on the roof and small garden.  We were lucky that on the morning of the funeral rites, sky held its peace & only gave away its tears in the late afternoon.

smell of fragrant roses

perks up my nose, but there're no flowers-

only dying candles-

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Haibun, hosted by Bjorn Rudberg. The haiku happened to me.  

Thank you for counting the moonbeams with me!

I touched the dark-
ness

and felt the rage of
heavy rains-
intensity of lightning- 
bleakness of shadows-

Yet, I also felt light-
ness

See, up there-
the moon
single flower
blooms with fervor
(not hope)
its silvery sheen 
enough to blaze nightsky- 

Reminding me:
Flower!




Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Quadrille with host De Jackson.   This is a 44 word post with the word - HOPE.   Thanks for the visit!  And for my Canadian friends, Happy ThanksGiving!!!