Blog Archives

Three Utterly Weird Poems


I.
Before the mountains were born,
Or there were stains in the sea,
God put his mouth to a horn
And blasted out notes with glee!
 
II.
I’m tired of drinking coffee, tired of drinking tea;
Give me chicken breasts and thighs for eternity!
 
III.
I heard three tigers breathing, I thought my time had come,
But then the fiercest tiger was turned into a plum
By the surging murmur of a wizened wizard’s breath,
And now I can’t help singing how I escaped from death!

 
  
Poems © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #213
 
More Poetry Pantry #479 at Poets United

Sanctuary

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A seaside sanctuary, Puerto Nuevo, Baja California Norte, México
 
 

I will build a sanctuary,
using nothing but a piece of string
a beam, and a post.
It may seem inadequate,
or a mean affair,
but it will not shake
during times of earthquake,
nor will it leave me poor,
for in it my soul will be reborn
as old, familiar prayers trigger
freshets of new meaning
into my everyday life.
It will carry me through
flood and fire, locust and hail,
or any other plague that comes.
This is what a sanctuary is for,
and this is why I pick this place
beside the sea.

 

Poem and photo © 2017 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
  

Another Baja Whirl

 photo 202_zpsw0swwowv.jpg
 
 
Each breath-of-a-poem begins with a phrase taken from The Forgotten Peninsula: A Naturalist in Baja California by Joseph Wood Krutch


 
~~ 1 ~~
 
Saints and mysteries
will keep any plague at bay
for an hour or two.
 
~~ 2 ~~
 
near my own front door
the blasphemy of a clown
making oaks tremble
 
~~ 3 ~~
 
From the burning wood
a whole tale of woe is born—
my house turns to ash.
 
~~ 4 ~~
 
deserted village—
the deck of the grandest house
crumbling into dust
 
~~ 5 ~~
 
the northwest corner
where all the temple monkeys
chatter morning prayers
 
~~ 6 ~~
 
peach tree in full bloom—
she savors the sweet, ripe fruit
five months from today
 
~~ 7 ~~
 
a wizard’s garden—
his rustling among the herbs
till he plucks one leaf
 
~~ 8 ~~
 
to travel southward
where the hills are dry and brown—
the pilgrim’s longing
 
~~ 9 ~~
 
the caressing warmth
of a single tear flowing
down her furrowed cheek

 
© 2015 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 203