Category Archives: Poetry Pantry
Palo verde tree in bloom at Yuma Conservation Garden, Yuma, Arizona.
now flooding the valley
after three weeks
of steady rain with no slits in the
clouds, no patches of light,
must be a sign.
With one hand
I grab my guitar,
with the other
I begin scribbling a tale
about the distant waterfall.
fed by the recent rains,
that keeps thundering into an abyss.
I could have drifted
been swallowed by deep waters,
if sunlight had not
come to the valley again.
This is my tale,
this is my song.
Sing with me.
You open the kitchen door, Mother,
and slip into the woods
There is no trail to follow,
but you do not worry;
swarms of stars
wait to greet you
and show you the way.
You leave your valuables behind;
masked strangers can have them,
and you will not moan over your losses.
You know you’ll get what you need for
your journey at just the right time.
You were meant to fly—
the stars will deal gently with you.
The pond, Yuma Conservation Garden, Yuma, Arizona
Let us praise the raven and the rain.
Let us praise the singer and the song.
Let us praise the Cloud Spirit,
leading us to other roads
when our path is hedged and blocked
by creatures sinister and sleek.
Let us praise the river stones
whose dignity remains intact,
despite the ravages of floods and drought.
Let us praise all things great and small,
for the hundred-thousand ways
our days are measured out.
someone unpacked the caskets
at the cemetery
and laid the bodies face-up
on the lawn
where they now lie
as though they were sleeping
tomorrow the gardeners
who know the ropes
will be mowing around the bodies
and then they will desert them
for a body should not be
out of its box
these are the rules
nothing has changed
from the beginning
when people first buried their dead
Ocotillo blossom in April, Pinal County, Arizona
Haiga © 2018 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More Poetry Pantry #399 at Poets United
My friends leave the room,
taking daylight with them,
along with the moon and stars.
The onset of an illness makes me
morbid, not dangerous.
In my trance-like state,
I care for nothing.
What led me away from
wisdom’s eight strong pillars?
Will giving you the symptoms
of my illness point me to a cure?
Crouching in her cave
she gulps wine mixed
with sugars from the date and fig,
wine that burns like fire.
Bonds of frailty hold her fast.
Outside, in the garden of good and evil,
flowers big as moons bloom so bright
they appear to be burning flares,
but she cannot see them.
In her cave, all is darkness,
yet she seems to hear a voice read words
older than the prophets:
“Though our outer nature is wasting away,
our inner nature is being renewed every day.”
Does she dare to hope?
The malcontents keep telling us that the way things are
Is not good enough, and that everything must change
In einen Augenblick, as my German grandmother says.
It’s all right if the true believer flees the wrath to come.
It’s all right if you can’t stay upbeat when your mother dies.
It’s all right if you have to scramble for a living.
Let the hungry waves keep nibbling at the shore.
Let the rotten fruit melt slowly back into the earth.
Let the blackbird fly away, never to return.
It’s all right if you find enchantment in the depths.
It’s all right if you lose the key to happiness.
It’s all right if the one you hope to charm does not respond.
In this tumultuous world, where broken bones abound,
It is enough to whistle feebly when the lights go out.
It is enough to cause one sad child to laugh.
More Poetry Pantry #394 at Poets United