Tag Archives: Poetry

Going Beyond (sonnet)

Your face and body known to me as well As are my own, this quarter century And more now that we’ve intertwined our lives, Set free from solitude’s penitentiary. But still you are a stranger to me when You turn … Continue reading

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Writers’ Senryu

Insubstantial breaths, they are just words, after all, sculpting memory.

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Joy Sonnet

When on a day my song grows weak, I try Still to find light in this grey Winter sky. These lines of darkest drab that sometimes bind Once had some strength, once they could dull my mind. Embracing sadness for … Continue reading

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Lovely December (tanka)

Lovely December brings nakedness of Winter cold intimacy- come shiver along with me in the beauty of your skin.

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Balance of Power

“Truth fails not,” a man once said (Though honors soon went to his head). As men grow older, truth grows hard, Replaced by money and regard Till, petrified with work long past, Each falls to mumbling at the last, While … Continue reading

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Refugee’s Sonnet

When fear and weakness, fear’s true face, combine To harden hearts and undermine our sense Of unity, thus seeking just to find A way to lock ourselves inside the fence Of our own selfishness, our own conceit That tells us … Continue reading

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Some Sadnesses Can’t be Helped

Unbearable sadness: broken-legged doe, brain-hurt sparrow, wounded crow. On days like this, some images of sadness simply wash away memory of flight. Here’s the exit: the hurt doe led, fed by a second in the silence of snow– Quartets of … Continue reading

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Lines for the day they sentenced Dostoevsky to death

And when you heard the proclamation that Sought your death, did riots start among The characters still living in your head, Whose songs you had already partly sung? Was Ivan mostly terrified to meet The void that permits all, prohibits … Continue reading

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Hold On

Hold on now. Slide low and slow, Still as winter draperies Into the quiet years, Where meditation Heals it all. Not for us Now we’ve learned The running after cures That cure nothing Leaves no breath For singing. Simple songs, … Continue reading

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Sunday Four O’Clock

Nearly four on Sunday afternoon, The light begins to fade early these days; Time has changed, and so things darken soon: Some shapes that once were clear now fade in haze. There’s blood of guilt and blood of innocence Though … Continue reading

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