Sunday, December 27, 2020

hidden behind the leaves

 


Currently my prosepoem hidden behind the leaves is the subject of this weblog. This is the the 20th of 81 installments. The first poem was published August 16, 2020 and can be found using the archives.


twenty

a beastly night, snow and cold, wind howl, hunched in the portico of the university's library, huddled with dog who licks his chin and settles to sleep both with empty bellies but no matter, begging is a humbling task, a monk's duty, but he could not; shoveling snow, nailing plywood, draping a bright blue tarp over a rent roof brought a cup of tea and two pickles, dog eagerly eating the sour green cucumber


Sunday, December 20, 2020

hidden behind the leaves

Currently my prosepoem hidden behind the leaves is the subject of this weblog. This is the 19th of 81 installments. The first poem was published August 16, 2020 and can be found using the archives.

nineteen

a mongrel dog --- appropriate, that --- follows along with the wind in my footsteps, with gulls scavenging the sea wrack along a sandy esplanade, shops closed, windows still boarded, debris --- flotsam and jetsam, is it? --- tsunami wreckage as the town's folks go about their business as best they can, gathering cloud threatening snow ... turning to the dog he says, it's a hard life, dog, it's a hard life, lifting his head with one ear pricked the other half lopped, a quick sniff at the mangled carcass of a dead gull, shuffling down hard sand a siren begins to wail


Sunday, December 13, 2020

hidden behind the leaves

eighteen

with salt and pepper stubble hidden beneath my disreputable navy blue cap, it's a villainous look I have, thought master ko, but barring this leer, I look honest enough ha ha ha thinking allusions no doubt are satisfying bits with the rhyming nuance of illusion to boot ... more better that ... walking through this small coastal town, fog at sea and gulls a-wing and free, bereft would be a world without birds, connotations, too, arising, circling, bereft and dank like a muddy bottom on an ebbing tide in the fog

photograph by g simoni

Sunday, December 6, 2020

hidden behind the leaves

seventeen

woodcutter talking rough and sparse, if world is words how meagre this man's, but a rice ball and pickled radishes not trivial, no, he filled my belly with nothing to say, grunts as through the dank ravine we walked, smuggler's path, and as foothills become filled with light, master ko, once again alone, squats to rub the flat granite boulder free of grit, turning ink stick round and round through spits of water, taking up brush of fine white goat hair, he touches bristles to ink and brush tip to stone and


chi appears, bit of rice, steaming; more better, yes, than

no rice, empty belly