#contemplativepoetry — Public Fediverse posts

Glitch

flights are grounded
my wings are clipped
i need to wait a little
longer to start this trip

my future connection
could be in jeopardy
it might be a while
before we're set free

the whims of the divine
are all part of the plan
my life's trajectory is
not in my hands

so i will wait patiently
for the Control Tower's nod
and match my flight to the wind of an all-knowing God

August 15, 2015

Glitch

flights are grounded
my wings are clipped
i need to wait a little
longer to start this trip

my future connection
could be in jeopardy
it might be a while
before we're set free

the whims of the divine
are all part of the plan
my life's trajectory is
not in my hands

so i will wait patiently
for the Control Tower's nod
and match my flight to the wind of an all-knowing God

August 15, 2015

Glitch

flights are grounded
my wings are clipped
i need to wait a little
longer to start this trip

my future connection
could be in jeopardy
it might be a while
before we're set free

the whims of the divine
are all part of the plan
my life's trajectory is
not in my hands

so i will wait patiently
for the Control Tower's nod
and match my flight to the wind of an all-knowing God

August 15, 2015

Glitch

flights are grounded
my wings are clipped
i need to wait a little
longer to start this trip

my future connection
could be in jeopardy
it might be a while
before we're set free

the whims of the divine
are all part of the plan
my life's trajectory is
not in my hands

so i will wait patiently
for the Control Tower's nod
and match my flight to the wind of an all-knowing God

August 15, 2015

Dusk

i had such grandiose plans
another day to spend
from the bank of my life
to reap the dividend

somewhere i went awry
i lost track of the sun
when i turned around again
the day was almost done

so now i pin my hopes
on the fading light
i watch the creeping shadows
and make plans for the night

August 13, 2015

Dusk

i had such grandiose plans
another day to spend
from the bank of my life
to reap the dividend

somewhere i went awry
i lost track of the sun
when i turned around again
the day was almost done

so now i pin my hopes
on the fading light
i watch the creeping shadows
and make plans for the night

August 13, 2015

Dusk

i had such grandiose plans
another day to spend
from the bank of my life
to reap the dividend

somewhere i went awry
i lost track of the sun
when i turned around again
the day was almost done

so now i pin my hopes
on the fading light
i watch the creeping shadows
and make plans for the night

August 13, 2015

Dusk

i had such grandiose plans
another day to spend
from the bank of my life
to reap the dividend

somewhere i went awry
i lost track of the sun
when i turned around again
the day was almost done

so now i pin my hopes
on the fading light
i watch the creeping shadows
and make plans for the night

August 13, 2015

Pace

Often I find myself stuck
between the slow
and the fast,
fitting into neither,
stumbling,
never finding
a comfortable
pace.

I am impatient 
with those ahead of me, 
whose slow progress 
impedes my attempts 
to reach my destination.

I am angry at those 
pushing me from behind, 
so concerned with 
reaching their goal 
that I am just another 
obstacle in their way.

I must remember 
that at times I have 
been both.

It is the engine within, 
not the speed of those 
I encounter on the road, 
that drives me to anger 
and impatience.

O Divine Driver,
 Grant that I might have a
 more compassionate
 awareness on this
 journey.

August 2, 2015

Pace

Often I find myself stuck
between the slow
and the fast,
fitting into neither,
stumbling,
never finding
a comfortable
pace.

I am impatient 
with those ahead of me, 
whose slow progress 
impedes my attempts 
to reach my destination.

I am angry at those 
pushing me from behind, 
so concerned with 
reaching their goal 
that I am just another 
obstacle in their way.

I must remember 
that at times I have 
been both.

It is the engine within, 
not the speed of those 
I encounter on the road, 
that drives me to anger 
and impatience.

O Divine Driver,
 Grant that I might have a
 more compassionate
 awareness on this
 journey.

August 2, 2015

Pace

Often I find myself stuck
between the slow
and the fast,
fitting into neither,
stumbling,
never finding
a comfortable
pace.

I am impatient 
with those ahead of me, 
whose slow progress 
impedes my attempts 
to reach my destination.

I am angry at those 
pushing me from behind, 
so concerned with 
reaching their goal 
that I am just another 
obstacle in their way.

I must remember 
that at times I have 
been both.

It is the engine within, 
not the speed of those 
I encounter on the road, 
that drives me to anger 
and impatience.

O Divine Driver,
 Grant that I might have a
 more compassionate
 awareness on this
 journey.

August 2, 2015

Pace

Often I find myself stuck
between the slow
and the fast,
fitting into neither,
stumbling,
never finding
a comfortable
pace.

I am impatient 
with those ahead of me, 
whose slow progress 
impedes my attempts 
to reach my destination.

I am angry at those 
pushing me from behind, 
so concerned with 
reaching their goal 
that I am just another 
obstacle in their way.

I must remember 
that at times I have 
been both.

It is the engine within, 
not the speed of those 
I encounter on the road, 
that drives me to anger 
and impatience.

O Divine Driver,
 Grant that I might have a
 more compassionate
 awareness on this
 journey.

August 2, 2015

Worry Wart

The troubles of this passing day
weigh heavy on my head,
until I join the hollow-eyed,
the weary walking dead;
I stumble through the crumbling streets
where nameless fears are bred,
consumed by temoral things
and this mortal dread.

O, that this wart of worry
might be lifted from my head,
this small, persistent torment
on which my fears are fed;
that I might cease rehearsing
each bitter word unsaid,
and stop imagining sorrows
still waiting up ahead.

O, let me quit resisting
the road where I am led,
and trust the ground beneath me
though shadows o'er me spread,
for life is more than trembling
before the things I dread—
perhaps the path I fear to walk
leads to trust instead.

August 8, 2015 (exp. 2026)

Worry Wart

The troubles of this passing day
weigh heavy on my head,
until I join the hollow-eyed,
the weary walking dead;
I stumble through the crumbling streets
where nameless fears are bred,
consumed by temoral things
and this mortal dread.

O, that this wart of worry
might be lifted from my head,
this small, persistent torment
on which my fears are fed;
that I might cease rehearsing
each bitter word unsaid,
and stop imagining sorrows
still waiting up ahead.

O, let me quit resisting
the road where I am led,
and trust the ground beneath me
though shadows o'er me spread,
for life is more than trembling
before the things I dread—
perhaps the path I fear to walk
leads to trust instead.

August 8, 2015 (exp. 2026)

Worry Wart

The troubles of this passing day
weigh heavy on my head,
until I join the hollow-eyed,
the weary walking dead;
I stumble through the crumbling streets
where nameless fears are bred,
consumed by temoral things
and this mortal dread.

O, that this wart of worry
might be lifted from my head,
this small, persistent torment
on which my fears are fed;
that I might cease rehearsing
each bitter word unsaid,
and stop imagining sorrows
still waiting up ahead.

O, let me quit resisting
the road where I am led,
and trust the ground beneath me
though shadows o'er me spread,
for life is more than trembling
before the things I dread—
perhaps the path I fear to walk
leads to trust instead.

August 8, 2015 (exp. 2026)

Worry Wart

The troubles of this passing day
weigh heavy on my head,
until I join the hollow-eyed,
the weary walking dead;
I stumble through the crumbling streets
where nameless fears are bred,
consumed by temoral things
and this mortal dread.

O, that this wart of worry
might be lifted from my head,
this small, persistent torment
on which my fears are fed;
that I might cease rehearsing
each bitter word unsaid,
and stop imagining sorrows
still waiting up ahead.

O, let me quit resisting
the road where I am led,
and trust the ground beneath me
though shadows o'er me spread,
for life is more than trembling
before the things I dread—
perhaps the path I fear to walk
leads to trust instead.

August 8, 2015 (exp. 2026)

Worry Wart

The troubles of this passing day
weigh heavy on my head,
until I join the hollow-eyed,
the weary walking dead;
I stumble through the crumbling streets
where nameless fears are bred,
consumed by temoral things
and this mortal dread.

O, that this wart of worry
might be lifted from my head,
this small, persistent torment
on which my fears are fed;
that I might cease rehearsing
each bitter word unsaid,
and stop imagining sorrows
still waiting up ahead.

O, let me quit resisting
the road where I am led,
and trust the ground beneath me
though shadows o'er me spread,
for life is more than trembling
before the things I dread—
perhaps the path I fear to walk
leads to trust instead.

August 8, 2015 (exp. 2026)

Stumbling Block

It seems I have always been stumbling, tripping over the unintended in a fog of wandering wonder.

The mist has been ever around me, my cloud by day. I am enveloped by mystery.

You do indeed love to surprise me, O God;

two girls find shiny stones in a fountain and their joy chases away the despair at not finding a loved one,

the hospitality of friends lightens the weight upon a heavy chest from a returning to what was and the traveler can breathe again into what will be,

a mother’s words and the night breeze dries a daughter’s tears and she can smile at the deep thrum of a bullfrog,

lovers lie for a moment in the morning and the frustrations of yesterday fade into the quiet beginnings of another day.

It is time then.

I rise up into the bone crackling morning, my body protesting, my spirit already stretching out along the places I will see.

Inside, I find I am ready for more stumbling.

July 29, 2022

Stumbling Block

It seems I have always been stumbling, tripping over the unintended in a fog of wandering wonder.

The mist has been ever around me, my cloud by day. I am enveloped by mystery.

You do indeed love to surprise me, O God;

two girls find shiny stones in a fountain and their joy chases away the despair at not finding a loved one,

the hospitality of friends lightens the weight upon a heavy chest from a returning to what was and the traveler can breathe again into what will be,

a mother’s words and the night breeze dries a daughter’s tears and she can smile at the deep thrum of a bullfrog,

lovers lie for a moment in the morning and the frustrations of yesterday fade into the quiet beginnings of another day.

It is time then.

I rise up into the bone crackling morning, my body protesting, my spirit already stretching out along the places I will see.

Inside, I find I am ready for more stumbling.

July 29, 2022

Stumbling Block

It seems I have always been stumbling, tripping over the unintended in a fog of wandering wonder.

The mist has been ever around me, my cloud by day. I am enveloped by mystery.

You do indeed love to surprise me, O God;

two girls find shiny stones in a fountain and their joy chases away the despair at not finding a loved one,

the hospitality of friends lightens the weight upon a heavy chest from a returning to what was and the traveler can breathe again into what will be,

a mother’s words and the night breeze dries a daughter’s tears and she can smile at the deep thrum of a bullfrog,

lovers lie for a moment in the morning and the frustrations of yesterday fade into the quiet beginnings of another day.

It is time then.

I rise up into the bone crackling morning, my body protesting, my spirit already stretching out along the places I will see.

Inside, I find I am ready for more stumbling.

July 29, 2022

Stumbling Block

It seems I have always been stumbling, tripping over the unintended in a fog of wandering wonder.

The mist has been ever around me, my cloud by day. I am enveloped by mystery.

You do indeed love to surprise me, O God;

two girls find shiny stones in a fountain and their joy chases away the despair at not finding a loved one,

the hospitality of friends lightens the weight upon a heavy chest from a returning to what was and the traveler can breathe again into what will be,

a mother’s words and the night breeze dries a daughter’s tears and she can smile at the deep thrum of a bullfrog,

lovers lie for a moment in the morning and the frustrations of yesterday fade into the quiet beginnings of another day.

It is time then.

I rise up into the bone crackling morning, my body protesting, my spirit already stretching out along the places I will see.

Inside, I find I am ready for more stumbling.

July 29, 2022

Stumbling Block

It seems I have always been stumbling, tripping over the unintended in a fog of wandering wonder.

The mist has been ever around me, my cloud by day. I am enveloped by mystery.

You do indeed love to surprise me, O God;

two girls find shiny stones in a fountain and their joy chases away the despair at not finding a loved one,

the hospitality of friends lightens the weight upon a heavy chest from a returning to what was and the traveler can breathe again into what will be,

a mother’s words and the night breeze dries a daughter’s tears and she can smile at the deep thrum of a bullfrog,

lovers lie for a moment in the morning and the frustrations of yesterday fade into the quiet beginnings of another day.

It is time then.

I rise up into the bone crackling morning, my body protesting, my spirit already stretching out along the places I will see.

Inside, I find I am ready for more stumbling.

July 29, 2022

The Sodden Astronomer

They say, Do not look at the stars,
or you will step into holes
and sink your shoes in mud.

So you can keep your eyes
fixed on the ground,
safe from puddles,
safe from falling,
and miss the lights
burning above in the dark—

except for a stolen glance,
a hurried sip of heaven.

Or you can throw
caution to the wind,
lift your thirsty face
to those bright jewels
sewn into black velvet,

and stumble on
with wet feet.

October 27, 1988 (edited June 2026)
Curridabat, Costa Rica

Part of the continuing Respectful American series, a selection of writings from my travel journals from Central America in 1988

The Sodden Astronomer

They say, Do not look at the stars,
or you will step into holes
and sink your shoes in mud.

So you can keep your eyes
fixed on the ground,
safe from puddles,
safe from falling,
and miss the lights
burning above in the dark—

except for a stolen glance,
a hurried sip of heaven.

Or you can throw
caution to the wind,
lift your thirsty face
to those bright jewels
sewn into black velvet,

and stumble on
with wet feet.

October 27, 1988 (edited June 2026)
Curridabat, Costa Rica

Part of the continuing Respectful American series, a selection of writings from my travel journals from Central America in 1988

The Sodden Astronomer

They say, Do not look at the stars,
or you will step into holes
and sink your shoes in mud.

So you can keep your eyes
fixed on the ground,
safe from puddles,
safe from falling,
and miss the lights
burning above in the dark—

except for a stolen glance,
a hurried sip of heaven.

Or you can throw
caution to the wind,
lift your thirsty face
to those bright jewels
sewn into black velvet,

and stumble on
with wet feet.

October 27, 1988 (edited June 2026)
Curridabat, Costa Rica

Part of the continuing Respectful American series, a selection of writings from my travel journals from Central America in 1988

The Sodden Astronomer

They say, Do not look at the stars,
or you will step into holes
and sink your shoes in mud.

So you can keep your eyes
fixed on the ground,
safe from puddles,
safe from falling,
and miss the lights
burning above in the dark—

except for a stolen glance,
a hurried sip of heaven.

Or you can throw
caution to the wind,
lift your thirsty face
to those bright jewels
sewn into black velvet,

and stumble on
with wet feet.

October 27, 1988 (edited June 2026)
Curridabat, Costa Rica

Part of the continuing Respectful American series, a selection of writings from my travel journals from Central America in 1988

in landscapes unfamiliar

In landscapes unfamiliar,
when the destination shines in the distance,
the path does not always reveal itself.

There may be no signpost,
no worn road beneath the feet,
only hills rolling into shadow,
fields bending under strange winds,
and the far glimmer of something hoped for
calling from beyond the unknown.

But if one keeps walking,
if one remains on the journey,
step after uncertain step,
with dust on the shoes
and questions in the heart,

the way appears.

Not all at once,
not as a map unfolded in the hand,
but as a clearing between trees,
a break in the stone,
a small light on the water.

And at last
the fisherman reaches the lake,
stands quietly at the edge
of all he had been seeking,

and makes his first cast.

July 11, 2015 (expanded June 2026)

in landscapes unfamiliar

In landscapes unfamiliar,
when the destination shines in the distance,
the path does not always reveal itself.

There may be no signpost,
no worn road beneath the feet,
only hills rolling into shadow,
fields bending under strange winds,
and the far glimmer of something hoped for
calling from beyond the unknown.

But if one keeps walking,
if one remains on the journey,
step after uncertain step,
with dust on the shoes
and questions in the heart,

the way appears.

Not all at once,
not as a map unfolded in the hand,
but as a clearing between trees,
a break in the stone,
a small light on the water.

And at last
the fisherman reaches the lake,
stands quietly at the edge
of all he had been seeking,

and makes his first cast.

July 11, 2015 (expanded June 2026)

in landscapes unfamiliar

In landscapes unfamiliar,
when the destination shines in the distance,
the path does not always reveal itself.

There may be no signpost,
no worn road beneath the feet,
only hills rolling into shadow,
fields bending under strange winds,
and the far glimmer of something hoped for
calling from beyond the unknown.

But if one keeps walking,
if one remains on the journey,
step after uncertain step,
with dust on the shoes
and questions in the heart,

the way appears.

Not all at once,
not as a map unfolded in the hand,
but as a clearing between trees,
a break in the stone,
a small light on the water.

And at last
the fisherman reaches the lake,
stands quietly at the edge
of all he had been seeking,

and makes his first cast.

July 11, 2015 (expanded June 2026)

in landscapes unfamiliar

In landscapes unfamiliar,
when the destination shines in the distance,
the path does not always reveal itself.

There may be no signpost,
no worn road beneath the feet,
only hills rolling into shadow,
fields bending under strange winds,
and the far glimmer of something hoped for
calling from beyond the unknown.

But if one keeps walking,
if one remains on the journey,
step after uncertain step,
with dust on the shoes
and questions in the heart,

the way appears.

Not all at once,
not as a map unfolded in the hand,
but as a clearing between trees,
a break in the stone,
a small light on the water.

And at last
the fisherman reaches the lake,
stands quietly at the edge
of all he had been seeking,

and makes his first cast.

July 11, 2015 (expanded June 2026)

Greed

the heart is a void
sucking greedily
at anything around it

a vain attempt
to satisfy
its eternal hunger

until even the self
is swallowed

into the hollow cavern
of its unending lust

the person disappears

and the dark virus remains

the emptiness begins
to curl back upon itself

its bloody lips
attacking
in steady demise

until all that remains
is the ache
of never enough.

May 18, 1987 (rewritten June 2026)

Greed

the heart is a void
sucking greedily
at anything around it

a vain attempt
to satisfy
its eternal hunger

until even the self
is swallowed

into the hollow cavern
of its unending lust

the person disappears

and the dark virus remains

the emptiness begins
to curl back upon itself

its bloody lips
attacking
in steady demise

until all that remains
is the ache
of never enough.

May 18, 1987 (rewritten June 2026)

Greed

the heart is a void
sucking greedily
at anything around it

a vain attempt
to satisfy
its eternal hunger

until even the self
is swallowed

into the hollow cavern
of its unending lust

the person disappears

and the dark virus remains

the emptiness begins
to curl back upon itself

its bloody lips
attacking
in steady demise

until all that remains
is the ache
of never enough.

May 18, 1987 (rewritten June 2026)

Greed

the heart is a void
sucking greedily
at anything around it

a vain attempt
to satisfy
its eternal hunger

until even the self
is swallowed

into the hollow cavern
of its unending lust

the person disappears

and the dark virus remains

the emptiness begins
to curl back upon itself

its bloody lips
attacking
in steady demise

until all that remains
is the ache
of never enough.

May 18, 1987 (rewritten June 2026)

Greed

the heart is a void
sucking greedily
at anything around it

a vain attempt
to satisfy
its eternal hunger

until even the self
is swallowed

into the hollow cavern
of its unending lust

the person disappears

and the dark virus remains

the emptiness begins
to curl back upon itself

its bloody lips
attacking
in steady demise

until all that remains
is the ache
of never enough.

May 18, 1987 (rewritten June 2026)

The Loveliest

The woman 
with a 
double chin 
and fat fingers
around plastic bags 
plops down 
in the seat
across the aisle 
and blocks 
my view of the
goddess 
whose magazine 
is filled with 
clothes
she'd fill out 
quite nicely.

The pretty 
and the ugly 
sit side by side
and I wonder 
who is 
the loveliest 
in God's eyes.

February 22, 2002

The Loveliest

The woman 
with a 
double chin 
and fat fingers
around plastic bags 
plops down 
in the seat
across the aisle 
and blocks 
my view of the
goddess 
whose magazine 
is filled with 
clothes
she'd fill out 
quite nicely.

The pretty 
and the ugly 
sit side by side
and I wonder 
who is 
the loveliest 
in God's eyes.

February 22, 2002

The Loveliest

The woman 
with a 
double chin 
and fat fingers
around plastic bags 
plops down 
in the seat
across the aisle 
and blocks 
my view of the
goddess 
whose magazine 
is filled with 
clothes
she'd fill out 
quite nicely.

The pretty 
and the ugly 
sit side by side
and I wonder 
who is 
the loveliest 
in God's eyes.

February 22, 2002

The Loveliest

The woman 
with a 
double chin 
and fat fingers
around plastic bags 
plops down 
in the seat
across the aisle 
and blocks 
my view of the
goddess 
whose magazine 
is filled with 
clothes
she'd fill out 
quite nicely.

The pretty 
and the ugly 
sit side by side
and I wonder 
who is 
the loveliest 
in God's eyes.

February 22, 2002

The Loveliest

The woman 
with a 
double chin 
and fat fingers
around plastic bags 
plops down 
in the seat
across the aisle 
and blocks 
my view of the
goddess 
whose magazine 
is filled with 
clothes
she'd fill out 
quite nicely.

The pretty 
and the ugly 
sit side by side
and I wonder 
who is 
the loveliest 
in God's eyes.

February 22, 2002

Pesach

The hound 
and doe 
pass within feet 
of the other, 
unaware, 
the shadowed growth 
and wind direction 
masking their 
presence 
and the natural 
inclinations 
of the pursued 
and pursuer.

This observer 
is reminded that 
the world 
does not 
always follow 
in the patterns 
one expects. 

The angel 
may pass by 
again, 
and what 
is hidden 
revealed 
by a subtle 
shift
of the 
wind.

June 14, 2026

This Moment – Lost

a thought of beauty strikes me
and I must express it so

but as I reach to grasp it
it flutters away,

a moth,
a feather,
a small white bird
startled by the motion
of my wanting.

my hand closes
around nothing,

void,

and I stand there
foolish with longing,
as if the air itself
had promised me a gift
then taken it back.

and I weep
for the passing moment.

it will never come again.

not in that light,
not with that breath,
not with the same small door
opened briefly
between the soul
and the world.

May 8, 1987 (age 19) (Expanded and updated June 2026)

This Moment – Lost

a thought of beauty strikes me
and I must express it so

but as I reach to grasp it
it flutters away,

a moth,
a feather,
a small white bird
startled by the motion
of my wanting.

my hand closes
around nothing,

void,

and I stand there
foolish with longing,
as if the air itself
had promised me a gift
then taken it back.

and I weep
for the passing moment.

it will never come again.

not in that light,
not with that breath,
not with the same small door
opened briefly
between the soul
and the world.

May 8, 1987 (age 19) (Expanded and updated June 2026)

This Moment – Lost

a thought of beauty strikes me
and I must express it so

but as I reach to grasp it
it flutters away,

a moth,
a feather,
a small white bird
startled by the motion
of my wanting.

my hand closes
around nothing,

void,

and I stand there
foolish with longing,
as if the air itself
had promised me a gift
then taken it back.

and I weep
for the passing moment.

it will never come again.

not in that light,
not with that breath,
not with the same small door
opened briefly
between the soul
and the world.

May 8, 1987 (age 19) (Expanded and updated June 2026)

This Moment – Lost

a thought of beauty strikes me
and I must express it so

but as I reach to grasp it
it flutters away,

a moth,
a feather,
a small white bird
startled by the motion
of my wanting.

my hand closes
around nothing,

void,

and I stand there
foolish with longing,
as if the air itself
had promised me a gift
then taken it back.

and I weep
for the passing moment.

it will never come again.

not in that light,
not with that breath,
not with the same small door
opened briefly
between the soul
and the world.

May 8, 1987 (age 19) (Expanded and updated June 2026)

This Moment – Lost

a thought of beauty strikes me
and I must express it so

but as I reach to grasp it
it flutters away,

a moth,
a feather,
a small white bird
startled by the motion
of my wanting.

my hand closes
around nothing,

void,

and I stand there
foolish with longing,
as if the air itself
had promised me a gift
then taken it back.

and I weep
for the passing moment.

it will never come again.

not in that light,
not with that breath,
not with the same small door
opened briefly
between the soul
and the world.

May 8, 1987 (age 19) (Expanded and updated June 2026)

Tankas “Dark Rooms of Slow”

Morning bids me go.
In darkened rooms, I walk slow -
where night shadows grow.
I don't want to stub my toe.
Hence, my need for walking slow.

As I traverse the night, 
you may say, Turn on a light!
(You know I just might).
I'm sure that would help my sight. 
I'll still go slow when it's bright.

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.

Bullet the Blue Sky*

I went outside 
to watch the 
stars.

It is as if 
all the bullets 
from the war 
have been fired 
into the sky,
tearing holes 
in the black velvet 
for a little bit 
of heaven 
to shine 
through.

Every once 
in a while 
the fabric rips 
as a shooting star 
races across 
the sky,
but then 
it quickly 
mends 
itself.

November 2, 1988
La Esperanza, Nicaragua

Part of the continuing Ugly American series, a selection of writings from my travel journals from Central America in 1988

*From the U2 song of the same title

Bullet the Blue Sky*

I went outside 
to watch the 
stars.

It is as if 
all the bullets 
from the war 
have been fired 
into the sky,
tearing holes 
in the black velvet 
for a little bit 
of heaven 
to shine 
through.

Every once 
in a while 
the fabric rips 
as a shooting star 
races across 
the sky,
but then 
it quickly 
mends 
itself.

November 2, 1988
La Esperanza, Nicaragua

Part of the continuing Ugly American series, a selection of writings from my travel journals from Central America in 1988

*From the U2 song of the same title

Bullet the Blue Sky*

I went outside 
to watch the 
stars.

It is as if 
all the bullets 
from the war 
have been fired 
into the sky,
tearing holes 
in the black velvet 
for a little bit 
of heaven 
to shine 
through.

Every once 
in a while 
the fabric rips 
as a shooting star 
races across 
the sky,
but then 
it quickly 
mends 
itself.

November 2, 1988
La Esperanza, Nicaragua

Part of the continuing Ugly American series, a selection of writings from my travel journals from Central America in 1988

*From the U2 song of the same title

Bullet the Blue Sky*

I went outside 
to watch the 
stars.

It is as if 
all the bullets 
from the war 
have been fired 
into the sky,
tearing holes 
in the black velvet 
for a little bit 
of heaven 
to shine 
through.

Every once 
in a while 
the fabric rips 
as a shooting star 
races across 
the sky,
but then 
it quickly 
mends 
itself.

November 2, 1988
La Esperanza, Nicaragua

Part of the continuing Ugly American series, a selection of writings from my travel journals from Central America in 1988

*From the U2 song of the same title

Bullet the Blue Sky*

I went outside 
to watch the 
stars.

It is as if 
all the bullets 
from the war 
have been fired 
into the sky,
tearing holes 
in the black velvet 
for a little bit 
of heaven 
to shine 
through.

Every once 
in a while 
the fabric rips 
as a shooting star 
races across 
the sky,
but then 
it quickly 
mends 
itself.

November 2, 1988
La Esperanza, Nicaragua

Part of the continuing Ugly American series, a selection of writings from my travel journals from Central America in 1988

*From the U2 song of the same title