I come weary — a Troiku

Creative Commons via Wikimedia Commons

I come weary,
In search of an inn—
Ah! These wisteria flowers!

—Matsuo Basho
Translation by William George Aston

I come weary,
are we not weary, you and I?
Yet we carry light hearts.

In search of an inn—
a meal, a bath, glasses of wine.
Glad meeting of old friends.

Ah! These wisteria flowers!
remind me of home, my garden
where I shall finally rest.

 

Back in 2012 (or 13?) Chèvrefeuille, the host of Carpe Diem Haiku Kai, introduced the form he called, Troiku. Follow the link for more information on this form. It’s an interesting twist on an ancient and revered poetry form.

No Matter — a poem

image by Charley

No matter how you grasp
the fork, how sharp you’ve made
the blade, life slices
clean and thin, and sets
pleasantly upon the tongue.

It doesn’t matter that rising
prices, wars that threaten
to spill over boundaries,
or ideologies have split
nations, neighbors and kin.

No matter that I dreamt,
frantic in my work clothes,
the containered space,
wrestling with urgent
emails, voicemails, texts….

A pair of Great Blues
strolling through the lifting
fog remind that off days follow
the week, holidays carry
necessary demands of rest.

The rising sun reflecting
paints pond-surface ripples
over my head on the bedroom
ceiling, a backbeat rhythm
for the new day born in light..

No matter that it’s Sunday.

No matter that Monday
is peering around the corner.

Hot tea is in the offing,
breakfast on the back porch –
cereal, yogurt and blueberries.

You will be there and love
will abide no matter

what comes.

 

* * *

A poem that grew out of Gwarlingo’s The Sunday Poem “Invitation for Writing & Reflection.” Thank you, James Crews for the jumpstart!

 

 

Publication!

Thank you to Terveen Gill, Editor of MasticadoresIndia for publishing one of my poems.

Dark, dark the wood through…

Dark, dark the wood through
which owl shadows soar
in and between
the canopy leaf.

Fleecy cover veils
a dour moon,
visage of distaste,
more likely disregard.

We fly in dreams
and change not the world.
Our night chills
do not the tides increase.

Yet, waking we are changed.

What matters
when deer and possum and gators rest;
but our fevered imaginings
prowl the nightmare terrain?

Our thoughts play
at nocturnal hunting.
We come up empty,
bleary-eyed, drowsy
with the blood-red sunrise
out of the roiling waves of slumber.

Our prey each morning slips
through us like spray-laden fog.

‘n Boots — a poem

unknown

hep cat stray cat cool cat spray cat
a feline felon flinging four-letter foulness

a tip of the hat gads I’m hatless drat
my name? W(ill) C(atch) Field(mice)s

I strut I hiss I spit and sputter
to come out alive pull fur with another

and now adieu
I go seeking a sunny window

…and perhaps a little nip before a nap

 

* * *

 

I blame The Sunday Muse.

 

Publication!

A Question of Geometry

Then the dragonfly flew,
squaring the corner, came
up the ramp toward the door
of the portable classroom —
a low, hovering student enrolled.

She pivoted suddenly, shunning
my handshake and greeting;
sharp corner before flying
back over the sidewalk.  She measured
the smooth cement squares
length by width, squaring
her corners to match
the edges and cracks
between the regular, regimental
slabs.

Settling in the sun, stunning
emerald and gold, pondering
our angles —

considering the human need.

* * *

Thanks to Terveen Gill at MasticadoresIndia for publishing my poem!

 

 

 

Seen better days… — a poem

Seen better days.

            Scene. Bitter days…

A lot of rot
about what makes
a home —
a home life —
a home like the one this has been.

            Enter. The father, worse for wear. A has-been.

What is left
when whitewash
won’t cover
what ate away
“us”?

A key truth
in all this
is my failure
turning
our love…

            Exeunt all but REGRET.

Leaving
the door ajar.

            No Fanfare. No reentry.

 

* * *

The Sunday Muse

Under Cover — a poem

With half our face obscured
we cease ourselves to be
with others.

                       Diminished
are we — made less by lost
transparency.

                       No smiles come
through paper or cloth. Saving
our lives we lose our souls.

                                             Cast
aside by a veiled, threatened
ill, our ability to interrelate
rots

        under cover.

Ravenous by Charles Lyman

Thank you to Terveen Gill and masticadoresindia.wordpress.com for publishing this poem!

MasticadoresIndia // Editora: Terveen Gill

Image Source: Snappa

“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before….”
— Edgar Allan Poe

Nietzsche didn’t get

virtual reality, the benefit

of mirrored aviators when fighting

the demons of oneself.

Becoming

monsterly while combating evil shows

a decided lack of lyrical aesthetic. Dance

in toe shoes around the edge of the whole.

I spend

hours opposing monsters that lurk

within me. The worst that happens

is that I build up a terrible appetite.

Appease the beast or at least get

out of his way in the kitchen.

-CHARLES LYMAN

Charles Lyman studied Fiction and Poetry (and a lot of other cool stuff) at the University of Minnesota. He teaches English in Orlando, Florida where he resides with his favorite poet and their disdainful dog.To read more of his poetic and creative writings visit –

Life…

View original post 18 more words

Speed Chess, Central Park — a poem

“When the men on the chessboard

Get up and tell you where to go….”

— Grace Slick

 

“…it’s time in time with your time and it’s news is captured….”

— Jon Anderson/Chris Squire



The rules have changed since the time
of chess club after school; a game
of speed in the park.

                                                click

Staunton laid aside, no more draws,
by FIDE — NewChess has become
Calvin Ball.

                                                click

It’s my pieces you’re swiping
when I’m not looking — erasing
squares.

                                                click

Threw the looking glass ‘cause of untruths;
it’s lying now, in pieces
on the floor.

                                                click

“Red Queen’s off with her head”
in the clouds, perhaps —
or elsewhere.

                                                click

Not much for current events gone stale,
mate! Let me play the classic rules.
If we tie, we tie.

 

* * *

The Sunday Muse #181