Category Archives: Sunday’s Whirligig
drew us away
from grief at dusk
as a courteous host
draws his guest
into the light
Who would want
Only a moth
with a broken wing.
More The Whirligig #291
More Writers’ Pantry #45 at Poets and Storytellers United
On seeing the world about them go splash,
They put on their helmets, ready to dash
Into the glimmering, shimmering waves
That will soon carry them into their graves.
They haven’t a prayer, they haven’t a chance,
They run through the door, preparing to dance
With spiraling waves that will not forgive—
Deadly the moments the boys won’t outlive.
Could ever there be a much sadder song
Than that of a day when all things go wrong?
Maybe the wrong would turn right, if we cared,
But plague time is here, and we’re unprepared.
More The Whirligig #264
More Writers’ Pantry #18 at Poets and Storytellers United
This is an Easter story, a Passover story, an anytime-you-need-to-practice-gratitude story. Once upon a time there was a butterfly who had no wings. She could not fly from here to there, but had to wait for the wind to shake her loose from one flower and carry her to the next. One night she had a dream: She was transformed! She had wings! And the best part? She woke from her dream to find that it was true! She could fly on her own from blossom to blossom! She began to breathe a prayer: “Spirit of wonder! Spirit of love! Thank you for my new life. I will cherish every moment of it, even when my wings become faded and tattered.”
Why are you waiting?
The road your grandmothers walked
is calling your name.
More The Whirligig #261
More Writers’ Pantry #15 at Poets and Storytellers United
First great change of spring—
the coronavirus spreads
all over the world.
On the patio
six feet away from my friend
we share springtime tea.
first nibble of spring—
a handful of raw almonds
with my morning tea
Through a small window
I watch the first spring robins
foraging for worms.
First possum of spring—
I’m inclined to think he’s dead
till his tail twitches.
Spring sneaks through my yard—
the first blossom’s opening
brings me to my knees.
Haiku © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More The Whirligig #259
More Writers’ Pantry #13 at Poets and Storytellers United
Spring’s first bitterness—
the church on top of the hill
is consumed by fire.
First small joy of spring—
at the bike store a young boy
gets a bargain price.
First Sunday of spring—
a worn, but polished, church bell
rings out loud and clear.
Spring’s first disaster—
the smoke-drenched walls of the bar
tell a fiery tale.
Spring’s first conundrum—
stand below the fire station,
tell me what you see.
Haiku © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More The Whirligig #258
More Writers’ Pantry #12 at Poets and Storytellers United
Yesterday at noon, when I opened my kitchen window, I looked out toward the clothesline, and saw the neighbor’s scruffy cat. “So, you’ve finally decided to wake up,” I said with a laugh. Instead of purring, the cat began snarling at me. It had my full attention! An intimate talk followed, although I will not tell you what was said. That moment stays between the cat and me, and I will hold onto it forever. Meanwhile, I’ve decided to listen. If anything can keep me from seeking the cat’s wisdom again, then I don’t deserve to hear its voice.
Fog envelops me,
yet I keep moving forward
on the unseen way.
More The Whirligig #256
More Writers’ Pantry #10 at Poets and Storytellers United
If I could touch the sound of a dove with my fingertips, I would. But my hopes are dashed; the little songster flees as I draw near. The dove calls again. Surely this time! Stealthily I move forward, but a dry leaf crackles underfoot. Hush now, I say to myself, you’re making too much noise; surely she hears you. But, no, there on a branch of the plum is the dove, and there is her song, pouring from her beak like a silver waterfall. Slowly, ever so slowly, I approach, I reach, I touch the sparkling notes. The dove does not stir, though she knows full well what I’m doing. You doubt my story? In the Age of Donald Trump, anything is possible.
An old Buddhist monk,
who never tells me his name,
visits me in dreams.
More Sunday’s Whirligig #248
More Writers’ Pantry #2 at Poets and Storytellers United