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LEAVING
They don’t do that here,the leaves do not demand to be seenonly in their chosen seasonsand their palette is self-limited.There is no budding in spring,no malus or prunus throwing offwild cascades of white and pinkpainting the ground around them.There is no riot of coloras summer retreats and winterplans its eventual arrival,blazing reds and oranges,yellow, ochers…
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ELAPSED TIME
Time measured outin a slow twistingof a fork, pitchedinto day’s heartbleeding heatas pulses fade.Tequila breezeblows acrossthe verandahpalms rustlingto rhythms of lifebodies snatchedcarried off, placesunseen, unimagined.Wings float upliftedher face in sleepserene, feline.Night’s morphine dripedges into sleepdreams of her touchcloses eyesto phoenix’s ascension. First published in The Berlin Literary Review, Issue 01, May 2023https://theberlinliteraryreview.com/issue-one/
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OF THE SEASONS
In the heart of winter, then,which seemed unendingI would stare out at the maplesbarren branches piledin ever tottering snowand dream of palm treesand a warm ocean breeze. In heart of winter now,such as it is, all I seeare endless palms andmany Southern Live Oaks,their branches piledunder a heavy burdenof sagging Spanish Mossand I dream of…
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THEM, AGAIN
They say that you shouldnever approach or toucha small bird, lest it he shunned,perhaps to death, by your scent. I’ve never been one to listento any “them” with whom Icannot argue face to face,and so seeing the small bird on the ground curledin its nest, staring upat the branch from whichshe parachuted groundward I scoop…
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AND CUT
It is a sad fact of life that Floridahas disqualified itself as a movie setfor a vast number of filmsthat will now go before the cameraon the streets of some Canadian city. No one is making films aboutdrug runners coming ashore inteal and pink with a soundtrackby Jan Hammer, since the illicitdrug of the moment…
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ISAN’S TIME 鐵笛倒吹 十六
A cold dayhow many other winterscan you remember,how many future winterscan your mind grasp? Can you hold yesterdayin the palm of your handcan you wrap tomorrowaround your thumb? Between the palmsin gassholies all life and being. A reflection on case 16 of the Iron Flute Koans
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an old writer and his words 