Blog Archives

Anything Is Possible: A Haibun


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.

 
  

Haibun © 2020 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #248
 
More Writers’ Pantry #2 at Poets and Storytellers United

 

A Quintet of Silliness


In the tundra you’ll not find
A stand of trees of any kind.
 
~~ ~~ ~~
 
A hologram is just the thing
To make the holy angels sing.
 
~~ ~~ ~~
 
Anyone who sings at dawn
Should just shut up and be gone!
 
~~ ~~ ~~
 
No parking in the garden, no parking close to trees!
But if I cannot park there, then tell me where, O please!
 
~~ ~~ ~~
 
Touch my lips and touch my crown,
Pick me up and set me down.
Let this be your lifelong task—
Is this much too much to ask?

 
Poems © 2018 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #170
 
More Poetry Pantry #411 at Poets United
 

At your touch


at your touch on this cold night
I lean into your hair
which smells of moons and stars
gratefully inhaling the scent
that makes me tipsy
as a hummingbird
too full of nectar
 
the faces of our children
not yet born
will glow with wonder
when we tell this story
thirty years from now
and they will tell it to their children
speaking in hushed voices:
 
how a farmer loved his wife
through sixty years of drought and plenty
while suns and stars and planets
kept whirling round the fields
and wistful neighbors spoke with reverence
of the fertile pair

 

Poem © 2018 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
   
More Sunday’s Whirligig #144
   
More Poetry Pantry #386 at Poets United

The Sane Thing to Do

 photo SDCountyJune2013528a_zps447ff855.jpg
Native American Virgin and Christ Child, Mission San Antonio de Pala, Pala, California

 

Wait!
This is not the season to rejoice.
Shame and scorn draw near to touch—
perhaps to torch—
the edges of your life.
There is no one to shield you
from unseemly words,
words tarnished by layers of grime,
words that will not mesh together now
or ever.
You steer an unsteady course;
seaweed tangles your rudder.
The sane thing to do?
Abandon this enterprise
of being an unwed mother!

 

Poem © 2016 and photo © 2013 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #89
   
More Poetry Pantry #332 at Poets United
 
More Twelve Days of Mary at Recuerda Mi Corazon

Plotlines

 photo 17335c3f-fd0f-48e1-8b03-e1b77c8fbb1f_zpsippwcxd8.jpg
Midwinter sunrise, Sonoran Desert, Southern Arizona
 
Each breath-of-a-poem begins with a phrase purloined from A Year in the World: Journeys of a Passionate Traveller by Frances Mayes.
 


~~ 1 ~~
 
on a yellow plate
a stack of toast tall enough
to touch the full moon
 
~~ 2 ~~
 
Against a stone wall
the notes from a temple bell
cling like morning mist.
 
~~ 3 ~~
 
adorned with flowers—
some scarlet, some lavender—
his daughter’s casket
 
~~ 4 ~~
 
a tall limestone cross—
seven dead chrysanthemums
scattered at its base
 
~~ 5 ~~
 
a few splats of rain
and her daydream is ruined—
midsummer morning
 
~~ 6 ~~
 
searching for a house
where three children play jump-rope
till the supper call
 
~~ 7 ~~
 
Under an awning
the desperate lovers touch
and kiss each other.
 
~~ 8 ~~
 
plotting the places
where she might run from his threats—
not enough to count
 
~~ 9 ~~
 
The man who sells forks
hides them from a group on tour—
his suspicious eyes.

 
Haiku © 2016 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 240

Small Tales

 photo a259c6e8-e503-448c-86d3-a0dbda1c5849_zps02nwgnop.jpg
 
 


~~ 1 ~~
 
a coatless woman
shivering under the bridge—
the scent of jasmine
 
~~ 2 ~~
 
slices of white bread
arranged on a blue platter—
the homeless shelter
 
~~ 3 ~~
 
memo to herself
scribbled on an envelope—
cigarettes and cream
 
~~ 4 ~~
 
the roadside barber
clipping shaggy pilgrims’ locks
a penny an inch
 
~~ 5 ~~
 
At first light of day
she bows before the mountains
in adoration,
while a dozen cactus wrens
sweep away leftover stars.
 
~~ 6 ~~
 
Time to say good-bye
to birds hidden in the bush—
one is in your hand,
one is nestling in your hair,
one is becoming a star.
 
~~ 7 ~~
 
It is not yet dawn
and already the old shoes
clamor for a walk,
their wrinkled tongues chattering
of paths they took long ago.
 
~~ 8 ~~
 
how the gods play games,
breaking open the bundles
of rye and oat straw,
while the farmer and his wife
take up their lamentations
 
~~ 9 ~~
 
breezy autumn day
tattered prayer flags on a fence
flapping crows away—
farmer’s unspoken longings
for a bumper crop of corn
 
~~ 10 ~~
 
exhausted pilgrim
thinking of another way
to make this journey
so that her threadbare tunic
will last another six months
 
~~ 11 ~~
 
in her small kitchen
a sip or two of cocoa
from a broken cup—
savoring the memories
of more than seventy years
 
~~ 12 ~~
 
one more touch of myrrh
to burn the tip of her tongue
with mortality

 
© 2015 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Poetry Pantry #262
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #17