Fallen ranks of red:
stamen spent, petals bent,
septum perrianders
mined to renderless;
now a trail of fragile
crumbs cracked brown,
to be ground to dust
while the clock sweats.
Hand over hand it hauls
from east to west to
test the moon’s resolve
to cool each bloom
and wake a hope
where hopeless rests.
Feb, 2013
I believe all the frogs that survived beaks and teeth and the long dry summer are now safely ensconced wherever it is frogs ensconce safely. Here’s to hoping enough of them got laid that we’ll hear much about it next summer.
The Moon
Too soon the moon
reflects a dappled gleam
on clambered hump
of grumping green
declined on lily bed of
sparked genetic dream.
Too soon, too late,
or misdirected swoon?
Shallow noiseless wakes
of willow legs impugn
the creeping grumbling
belly of a patient loon.
Oct. 2012
rush rush run
howl the wind
the moon the mooon
howl the wolves
the wolf the wooolf
howl the moon
but you dont hear
her casting song
what with your deceiving ears
casting her hook
at twinkling eyes
fishing for the sun
for her the stars put on a guise.
I am the sun I am the sun!
Foolish moon
moon mooon!
Rush rush run
the sun he runs too soon
he twirls his curls down to the
wolves and warms the wind
and the stars all wallow
in their shame
so do the wolves and wind
and other things,
the moon and sun are of the same.
Hana Kurahara Sisk
Sept. 2012
Hana is my young daughter, though her age belies the truth about her old soul. We both enjoy writing and often send extemporaneous poetry to each other via text messaging. For both of us it’s a way of avoiding the mundane: homework, chores, paying bills.
There is a notable difference between her poetry and mine. I put a great deal of effort into my poetry; for the same results, she writes with ease. Though she reads my poetry and feels free to comment and ask questions, I never worry about her emulating me. She already has a voice that goes with that old soul.
Sept. 23, 2012
A Literary Journal
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A Satirical Word In Your Shell-Like Ear
inken thought
Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.
what if poems could be symphonies, and people their orchestra?
All That Glitters Is Not Gold
a childhood poetry archive.
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