Emptying Haibun
Waiting, I open myself but nothing enters. Even music’s comfort avoids me, preferring calmer ports or perhaps another’s wind choices. I drop the weighted cord through the flute, pull it, and watch the cloth ease out. Some days pain drags behind me no matter what words emerge, what phrases follow. Last night brought the season’s first fireflies. This wall of books grows taller each day.
exhaling, I note
smudges in the sky —
oh, dirty window
I have three poems up at Nine Muses Poetry, a new online poetry journal out of the UK. Many thanks to editor Annest Gwilym for taking these poems.
Shakuhachi Blues
That waver,
like the end of a long
dream flickering to wakefulness,
or an origami crane
unfolding between whiskey
poured and the tale of deceit
and a good woman done wrong.
Air flutters through this bamboo
tube, and it seems I control
nothing. Inhaling, I try again.
My latest enthusiasm. A simple instrument that will take a lifetime to learn…
