Blog Archives

The Sun’s in My Eyes


The sun’s in my eyes, I fear I’ll go blind.
There’s ice in the attic, and I’m of a mind
To look for a world that’s calmer than calm,
Where even the view from the bathroom is balm;
No astral projections, no blood on the floor,
Sweet music is all that I’m looking for.
How fluid is life, how fleeting, yet sweet!
Now that I’m done with this rhyming, I’m beat!

 
Poem © 2018 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #188
 
More Poetry Pantry #429 at Poets United

Six Ways of Blackbird

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A cactus wren made of wood, mounted on particle board used to cover a window, Ajo, Arizona
 
 


  
~~ 1 ~~
  
late winter morning—
blackbird surveys his domain
from a chimney top
  
~~ 2 ~~
  
In weakness and woe
a weary pilgrim wanders,
blackbird at her side.
  
~~ 3 ~~
  
Blackbird on the wing
hears the hapless harlot’s cry
as her night begins.
  
~~ 4 ~~
  
A blackbird ignores
the blasts and blights of fortune
as she builds her nest.
  
~~ 5 ~~
  
a trickle of blood
from the blackbird’s open beak—
early morning crash
  
~~ 6 ~~
  
a curse and a cry—
and the blackbird disappears
for another year
 

 
Haiku © 2017 by Magical Mystical Teacher
  
  
More Macro Monday 2
  
More Sunday’s Whirligig #102
  
More Poetry Pantry #344 at Poets United

A Thorn in the Flesh

original
 
 


a thorn in the flesh—
blood from the sudden puncture
trickling down her leg
 
~~ ~~ ~~
 
a thorn in the flesh—
how it will cripple her soul
is anyone’s guess
 
~~ ~~ ~~
 
a thorn in her flesh—
something numinous lurking
in the painful wound

 
© 2014 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
More Sunday Scribblings 2: “Thorn”
 
More Three Word Wednesday: “Blood, Cripple, Lurk”

One More Whirl with Basho

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Each haiku or senryu begins with a phrase culled from Basho: The Complete Haiku.
 


 
~~ 1 ~~
 
the lingering moon
tests my patience this evening—
my room is too small
 
~~ 2 ~~
 
in a rice paddy
your words coming to fullness
with the harvest moon
 
~~ 3 ~~
 
fading temple bell
the seeker’s anxiety
slips into silence
 
~~ 4 ~~
 
the smell of young grass
untainted by blood and gore
this April morning
 
~~ 5 ~~
 
four gates and four sects
one of them the hospital
at the ocean’s edge
 
~~ 6 ~~
 
to the wooden clogs
in the center of the court
setting up a shrine
 
~~ 7 ~~
 
still served with flowers
rosettes of orange Jell-O
blooming in my bowl
 
~~ 8 ~~
 
how pleasurable
holding three words on my tongue
until they mingle
 
~~ 9 ~~
 
the lay-monk’s thinness—
we know he won’t be with us
after the first frost
 
~~ 10 ~~
 
snow-covered mountains
sharing a meal together
fifty miles away
 
~~ 11 ~~
 
first wintry shower—
fluff from shattered milkweed pods
drifting from the north
 
~~ 12 ~~
 
an early winter
beggars pester passersby
for a few spare coins

 
© 2014 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Poetry Pantry #218
 
More The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 178

Trio

original
 
 


liberated leaves
falling to the forest floor—
first frost of autumn
 
~~ ~~ ~~
 
muddy from the storm—
sacred threads and marigolds
in the temple court
 
~~ ~~ ~~
 
deep in the forest
vicious creatures slavering
for a taste of blood

 
© 2014 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
More Carpe Diem: “Forest”
 
More Three Word Wednesday: “Liberated, Muddy, Vicious”
 
More Sunday Scribblings 2: “Sacred Threads and Marigolds”

Whirling with Walt

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The first line of each three-line snippet comes from “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman.
 


 
~~ 1 ~~
 
the eyes of the dead,
blind to beauty and blessing,
staring at nothing
 
~~ 2 ~~
 
knowing the perfect
candle to banish darkness—
only damp matches
 
~~ 3 ~~
 
eddies of the wind
on a mission for the storm
rising in the west
 
~~ 4 ~~
 
The shelves are crowded
with things simple and complex—
have you need of more?
 
~~ 5 ~~
 
choosing a safe spot,
perhaps your arms for the night,
before moving on
 
~~ 6 ~~
 
She owns the fine house
at the tip of the cape, where
no one is welcome.
 
~~ 7 ~~
 
on the granite floor
rivers of fresh blood flowing
from the killing spree
 
~~ 8 ~~
 
In the little wells
where the prairie meets the hill,
blind creatures huddle.
 
~~ 9 ~~
 
with me on the grass
seven ragged musicians
playing haunting tunes
 
~~ 10 ~~
 
Leaving me baskets
filled with ripe apples and rain,
she slips out to sea.
 
~~ 11 ~~
 
The little one sleeps,
caring nothing for the ghosts
that would torment her.
 
~~ 12 ~~
 
Stall in the market—
an image of St. Joseph
stirs among the spoons.

 
© 2014 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Poetry Pantry #208
 
More The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 168