Sunday, September 27, 2020

hidden behind the leaves

seven

horizon dim through thin valley cloud but here spreads a clear grey dawning sky with morning chill, an empty head and open hands; old tea cup now shattered on damp stone step, shards and sighs, master ko considers his bare toes with the blunt yellowed nails, impermanence, considers that buddha fella sitting under fig tree, sitting and sitting, you know that story? just sitting till becomes organ grinder's monkey ha ha ha, like rest of us, like you and me, good work that buddha fella does, good work, too, that sunrise and the so slow dissipation of thin cloud

photograph by g simoni

Sunday, September 20, 2020

hidden behind the leaves

 six

ripples across the dark surface of the pond flashing now with gold and red against the heavy gray dawn, standing beside the rivulet counting the tock of the deer scare, bubbles of breath break the surface as the koi feed, shadows, last night lightning not sleeping, dreaming; not dreaming, sleeping ... all the same kettle of fish, too many yeses, too many nos, illusion, lighting a candle in the darkness, this old rustic took up his brush


Dream (Japanese: Yume; Chinese: Mèng)

Sunday, September 13, 2020

hidden behind the leaves

 five


leaf shadows falling    falling      falling

thud


photograph by M Simoni

This is the 5th of 81 installments of the prosepoem hidden behind the leaves. The first poem was published August 16, 2020.




Sunday, September 6, 2020

hidden behind the leaves

four

dense dark clouds lowering across the wooded slopes him sitting in a dim corner tatami lumpy, smell of damp straw, empty head, open hand, neither yes nor no, naught but illusion, a good morning to breathe. Seeking the perfect inhalation. exhalation, inspiration, ichi  ni  san  shi  go  roku  shichi  hachi  kyu  ju  ichi  ni  san  shi like the ripple of creek eddies and little back splashes over well-rounded stones the moon still on the quiet pond, the white ducks come to feed diving, sleek underwater, rising to breath, breathing in and breathing out like matsuda playing with segovia in the park with his pudgy fingers and old nylon string guitar amongst the pigeons and gulls ise maybe or nikko 1957 or eight so long ago the bamboo bow once strung taut now not, but bending with the exhalation waiting waiting ichi ni san shi until the arrow flies of its own accord who knows where THWOCK!