#contemplative-poetry — Public Fediverse posts

Two Windows

A Tanka Sequence

I

In the still morning
you open the window wide
beside the table.
A cool breeze stirs the orchid,
cooling my cup of coffee.

II

Across from your light,
I open the other pane.
The air grows stronger.
Leaves whisper into the room
like all the things left unsaid.

III

Below the hillside,
a woodpecker drums the trees,
red crest among leaves.
A car passes on the road,
then fades into the morning.

IV

The wind kisses me.
I think of you and of us:
two windows open,
facing different landscapes,
yet filled with a single breeze.

Wet Prayer (A Tanka Poem)

Author’s Note: I have written haiku for many years. Heiwa Haiku has often been a spiritual practice for me. Recently I discovered tanka, another form of Japanese poetry, which, put simply, is haiku plus two additional lines. Haiku is generally written as three lines of 5-7-5 syllables respectively. Tanka uses the same format at the beginning and then adds two additional lines of 7 syllables each. The following is my first attempt at tanka. I am looking forward to further exploration and sharing of tanka poetry.

The morning is gray,
a soft rain is falling down.
I walk with head bowed, 
watching the mist of my breath,
listening to the wet prayer.

Wet Prayer (A Tanka Poem)

Author’s Note: I have written haiku for many years. Heiwa Haiku has often been a spiritual practice for me. Recently I discovered tanka, another form of Japanese poetry, which, put simply, is haiku plus two additional lines. Haiku is generally written as three lines of 5-7-5 syllables respectively. Tanka uses the same format at the beginning and then adds two additional line of 7 syllables each. The following is my first attempt at tanka. I am looking forward to further exploration and sharing my tanka poetry.

The morning is gray,
a soft rain is falling down.
I walk with head bowed, 
watching the mist of my breath,
listening to the wet prayer.

WildWords – The Shadows of Birds

Evening sun,
feverish glow—
what’s begun
I do not know.

Sky above,
I below,
face aflame,
body blow.

Light’s caress,
warming flow,
birds take wing
across the window.

Here I lie
as day burns low,
between what stays
and what will go.

WildWords – Lord of the Flies

The flies come first
as rumor,

black letters of punctuation
in the cellar air,

small restless witnesses
to what I have not buried.

They find the hidden place
before I do,

the sweetness gone sour,
the secret body
given back to its elements.

I thought death
would announce itself
with trumpets,

or thunder,

or at least
a proper lament.

But here it is
in wings,

in the frantic scripture
of a thousand tiny bodies

writing circles
around the bulb.

Lord of the flies,
lord of the unclean corners,
lord of what ripens
when I refuse to look,

you do not create the death.

You only reveal it.

You rise from the wound
and make it audible.

You gather
where something has ended
and been left unnamed.

So I stand in the basement
with paper strips hanging
like sad yellow prayers,

with poison in the air,
with a broom in my hand,

and I know
this is not only about flies.

Something in me
has also gone untended.

Some old grief
has softened in the dark.

Some resentment
has been born in bitter warmth.

Some fear
has bred in the damp boxes
of the soul.

And the outer world,
faithful as a mirror,
begins to reflect what is within.

The dead thing calls forth wings.

The buried thing
becomes a cloud.

Lord above,
but Lord beneath even this,

teach me to descend
without disgust,

to find what has died,
to name it,
to remove it,

to open the window
where I can,

to let the clean wind
do its slow ministry.

For even the fly
is a witness,

even decay
is a kind of bell,

even infestation
can become annunciation

if it leads me
to the hidden corpse,

if it leads me
to the truth,

if it leads me
at last

to bury what is dead
and bless what still
wants to live.

WildWords – Lord of the Flies

The flies come first
as rumor,

black letters of punctuation
in the cellar air,

small restless witnesses
to what I have not buried.

They find the hidden place
before I do,

the sweetness gone sour,
the secret body
given back to its elements.

I thought death
would announce itself
with trumpets,

or thunder,

or at least
a proper lament.

But here it is
in wings,

in the frantic scripture
of a thousand tiny bodies

writing circles
around the bulb.

Lord of the flies,
lord of the unclean corners,
lord of what ripens
when I refuse to look,

you do not create the death.

You only reveal it.

You rise from the wound
and make it audible.

You gather
where something has ended
and been left unnamed.

So I stand in the basement
with paper strips hanging
like sad yellow prayers,

with poison in the air,
with a broom in my hand,

and I know
this is not only about flies.

Something in me
has also gone untended.

Some old grief
has softened in the dark.

Some resentment
has been born in bitter warmth.

Some fear
has bred in the damp boxes
of the soul.

And the outer world,
faithful as a mirror,
begins to reflect what is within.

The dead thing calls forth wings.

The buried thing
becomes a cloud.

Lord above,
but Lord beneath even this,

teach me to descend
without disgust,

to find what has died,
to name it,
to remove it,

to open the window
where I can,

to let the clean wind
do its slow ministry.

For even the fly
is a witness,

even decay
is a kind of bell,

even infestation
can become annunciation

if it leads me
to the hidden corpse,

if it leads me
to the truth,

if it leads me
at last

to bury what is dead
and bless what still
wants to live.

WildWords – Trembling Leaves

It begins in obscurity,
in the graying of the light,
when the lilac leaves tremble
one by one,
like tiny green drums
kissed by wet hands.

I watch them
and know something of prayer:
not certainty,
not brightness,
not the approaching thunder of answer,
but this—
the dimming light,
the damp touch,
the fragile rhythm 
of what remains alive
even when the whole world
seems to fade
at the edges.

And I,
quiet as the darkening earth,
learn again
that creation often prays
before it weeps,

that the body trembles
before the sorrow comes,
that even fear
can be a kind of listening

when the world wans
and the leaves begin
their soft percussion
under the subtle caress of rain.

WildWords – Trembling Leaves

It begins in obscurity,
in the graying of the light,
when the lilac leaves tremble
one by one,
like tiny green drums
kissed by wet hands.

I watch them
and know something of prayer:
not certainty,
not brightness,
not the approaching thunder of answer,
but this—
the dimming light,
the damp touch,
the fragile rhythm 
of what remains alive
even when the whole world
seems to fade
at the edges.

And I,
quiet as the darkening earth,
learn again
that creation often prays
before it weeps,

that the body trembles
before the sorrow comes,
that even fear
can be a kind of listening

when the world wans
and the leaves begin
their soft percussion
under the subtle caress of rain.