I’ve had a good writing week this week, all of which is on this blog. So before I pick up my son for ten days with him while his parents are on their honeymoon in New York, here are my last two offerings.
The lantern is lit.
The music is Japanese.
The walls blossom with hyacinths.
I am the only guest here.
Sitting on a broken bamboo chair, a sense of spiders
infesting my heart.
Grief gathering in the carpets.
The scent of dawn expunged by the low ceiling.
The blown glass
on the table filled with oleander and bitter-root.
I drink up.
Jewels tingle in the mouth of the captive bird.
Red-gold, yellow-bronze, gossamer spins itself.
The lantern shimmers and sighs.
An unborn child
gazes at me
from the muttering darkness.
Journey to the End of the Night
With my bottle of beer, I sit oblivious to Night,
until a thin green rain begins to fall
and I stagger under a maple tree, heavy
From here I can see
a wandering swan in the floating river
mists, a symbol of solitude and the light
From here I can see the broken black
branches and darkening leaves;
from the trembling pallet knife.
Pink flowers cut across the white clouds.
They sail off to distant skies
and other suns,
like friends I’ve had and people I’ve known,
dead, mysteriously absent,
They still speak to me.