Category Archives: The Whirligig
a broken silk umbrella
lies in the gutter.
How placid the cat
curled seemingly forever
in the old man’s lap!
to drink clear, cool spring water
from a clean white cup!
In darkness the hills
hold lurid conversations
with the river stones.
the maple’s leaves turn crimson
without fuss or noise.
More The Whirligig #320
More Haiku My Heart at Recuerda Mi Corazon
More Writers’ Pantry #72 at Poets and Storytellers United
I am a poem.
A poem that says it needs to be famous,
but busies itself with mundane work.
A poem that sometimes acts as if it were on stage,
but usually cowers in the bedroom closet.
A poem that defies gravity like a trapeze artist swinging
through space, only to find no place to land.
A poem that wants to attend the School of Extraordinary Feats,
but after graduating would not know how to apply what
it has learned to ordinary life.
Who would read a poem like that?
More The Whirligig #319
More Writers’ Pantry #71 at Poets and Storytellers United
This hair in my tea—
how can I not dislike it?
Spring’s first misfortune…
These shaded flowers
seem to want to climb the wall,
eager for more light.
O sorrowful moss,
surely you know that your hurt
has drawn me to you.
When autumn arrives,
meet me in the swirling leaves
near the maple tree.
More The Whirligig #318
More Writers’ Pantry #70 at Poets and Storytellers United
Among the flowers and grasses, tiny yellow-and-brown things with wings land and take off, take off and land. Should I be worried that I do not know their names? I lift one of the things from a flower stained with its excrement—so small to have made such a big mess! Looking at this nameless thing strips me of all notions of superiority. I know that the day is coming when my own stains will be concealed by the undertaker’s art. But that day can wait. I still have stories to braid.
A woman sleeping
on a green park bench wakes up,
stretching and yawning.
Let us create a liminal space,
One that’s suffused with mercy and grace;
Perhaps in the barn, or someplace out back,
Where time like cold water leaks through a crack
And spills to the bank of the river that comes
Roaring through gorges and blots out the sun.
So what if the stones are stacked ten feet deep?
So what if the path before us is steep?
So what if we slip while trudging along
Singing our watery, liminal song?
All will be well, for nothing will last;
Soon we’ll be gone—the night’s coming fast.
Poem © by Magical Mystical Teacher
Every tale I tell is true, although they may not have happened exactly the way I tell them. I embellish a detail here to emphasize a point. I subtract a detail there so it doesn’t detract from the narrative. I once held an old tabby cat until she died, feeling the blood rise and fall in her veins, and the faint purr of gratitude in her throat. No one wants to die alone, not even a cat. After her death I walked along the beach and picked up a shell. Everyone knows you can hear the ocean in a seashell. I heard my cat. She seemed to be whispering to me as she often did at midnight when she lay beside me in bed. “One day the current will carry you to me forever. Until then, I will speak to you as the wind or the waves. Listen.”
My first memories
burned to ashes long ago,
yet I still sift them.
Water spilling from a cup—
Will you help me wipe it up?
Grass is crying in the rain—
Watch out now, here comes a train!
Throw the broken plate away,
And then ask your friend to play.
Sing and sway, don’t rock the boat!
Just remember: Stones can’t float!
Poem © 2021 by Magical Mystical Teacher