Category Archives: Thursday Poets’ Rally
Haiku and Senryu by the Dozen: Take 2
I have forgotten
the reason for my journey—
this is far enough.
~~ ~~ ~~
There was no question
that we would rebuild our lives—
the question was how.
~~ ~~ ~~
Garden gate sagging,
weeds choking out the onions—
wild dereliction!
~~ ~~ ~~
I could hear singing
as I thatched the cottage roof—
her morning prayer.
~~ ~~ ~~
Seeking communion
with little fluttering things,
I find my soul’s home.
~~ ~~ ~~
Thousands of pigeons,
a furious featherstorm—
is there no escape?
~~ ~~ ~~
Breathing the same air
as my mortal enemies—
they and I are one.
~~ ~~ ~~
Is this how you pray?
By stuffing your mouth with stones?
Does God understand?
~~ ~~ ~~
Why grope for mere crumbs
when you have a wheaten loaf
buttered and waiting?
~~ ~~ ~~
Only crazy monks
would huddle on cold hearthstones,
hoping to get warm.
~~ ~~ ~~
a soulcraft journey—
not accomplished in a flash—
step by plodding step
~~ ~~ ~~
Unholy water,
bubbling from some hidden source,
will you stain my soul?
© 2012 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More Postcards from Paradise at Recuerda Mi Corazon here
More The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 38 poems here
More Thursday Poets’ Rally Week 60 here
More The Poetry Pantry #82 poems here
Haiku and Senryu: Take Four
in rivers or in puddles,
released breath by breath.
As long as they work,
why would you not hold my words,
weightless though they be?
Rapid were the words
she babbled to the river—
ten thousand welcomes.
So many stories
begin with a spasm of grief—
Tolstoy understood.
For the whole story,
you will need a spacious place—
some songs of Mahler.
is it a forest
or some troubling enigma—
my Zen teacher’s back
time in the death lodge—
elements of fire and earth
mixed with dragon breath
With the clang of gongs
and the smashing of old glass,
three elders appear.
God comes tumbling down
from heaven to the altar—
one of us may die.
Lunging at the moon
I feel the wild pulsations
of my wanton heart.
We seek your counsel,
Old Woman of the Mountain,
rare and wise and true.
Take the turtle home,
do not lose your grip on her—
she is your sister.
© 2011 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More The Thursday Think Tank with the theme “Off the Cuff” here
More Haiku My Heart at Recuerda Mi Corazon here
More The Sunday Whirl poems, Wordle 34 here
More Thursday Poets’ Rally Week 58 here
More The Poetry Pantry #79 poems here
More The Purple Treehouse haiku here
Haiku and Senryu: Take Three
Late last night the crickets sang,
tumbling round the room.
Where I want to go
is an enigma to me—
who knows the answer?
Just reading the words
released her from misery—
handwritten letter.
The arduous climb
would have been much easier
had we been weightless.
Somewhere in Kansas
you may gather elements
for your last supper.
In a fairy tale,
you might become a clear glass,
holding cherry wine.
A circle of stones,
rare as forgotten language,
beckons me to come.
hidden from my sight
dark pulsations of my blood
beating time on bone
When you first began,
you felt your life was spacious—
even in winter.
As a wanderer,
home has lost its grip on you—
stones are your pillows.
We suspect the song
that winds like a spasm of grief
round the heart of night.
She watered fruit trees
the day bombs fell on Baghdad—
rapid her praying.
© 2011 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More Haiku My Heart at Recuerda Mi Corazon here
More The Sunday Whirl poems, Wordle 34 here
More Share the Joy Thursday ruminations here
More Thursday Poets’ Rally Week 58 here
More The Poetry Pantry #79 poems here
More The Purple Treehouse haiku here
Itchy Feet
“You should forgive him,” my mother says.
“He can’t help it that his dancing causes heartache.”
“Drop it, Mama,” I say. “Don’t should on me.
The day I forgive him will be the day
the Eiffel Tower topples
or the Tallahatchie Bridge gets broken into dust.”
I swear that woman thinks I should jump through
ten thousand-thousand hoops for Jim Bob,
but I’m so sick of jumping
my lung’s about to burst.
I’m ready to bolt from this family and find another.
Any family will do, as long as it’s not this one.
I just can’t shoulder the burden anymore.
Besides, my feet are gettin’ itchy.
I hear that down there at the river shallows,
where thirty sinners gathered to be baptized last night,
there’s a preacher-man from Mountainville—
some say he’s a prophet—
who can tell me what I need to know.
Think I’ll go and visit him,
him and all those sinners.
My feet are gettin’ itchy
and I’d best be on my way.
© 2011 by Magical Mystical Teacher
As Jesus Walked
“Remember the little church where Dad preached
that walking with Jesus was an adventure?”
my sister Rachel asks after the funeral.
Fearful that she is going to become maudlin,
I turn my face to the wall and say nothing.
“Come on,” she pleads. “Don’t you remember?”
“What if I do? Then what?”
“There is no ‘what,’” she says. “I just feel
so lost and alone now that Dad’s gone,
and I thought that remembering something concrete
from his preacher days might help both of us.”
“Well, you thought wrong!” I snap. “I’m
not looking for signs and wonders
to multiply like loaves and fishes.
I don’t need a myriad reassurances
that Dad has gone to some so-called ‘better place.’
There is no better place.
Wherever I am is the place.
He’ll be with me in Mexico when I stumble, weeping,
through the cobbled streets of San Miguel,
and when I come back and circle the block on my morning walk—
if you let him go.
Free him from the prison of your memory
so that he can walk with me
as Jesus walked with his disciples by the sea.”
© 2011 by Magical Mystical Teacher
Magical Mystical Teacher 