February 2019

cicadas
why so much racket
are you endangered too?

for revision
a cluster of words
still beating
with an old man
my lengthening shadow
so much sea wrack

in silence
the softness of her
moonlit voice

darkness lurks
a pinch of flame away
by candle light

darkening night
the via negativa
birthing stars

why not equal,
my shadow, my future?
autumn dusk

dead silence . . .
a dancer slips out
of her dance

becoming night
the flesh
of our shadows

a new moon
hidden further yet
in the feathered folds
of brooding clouds

when voices cease,
then and only then,
all eyes upon
his closing eyes

it is just like that
the ease with which
your eyes turn on
a falling leaf

a new moon
matching my mind's meander
along streams
of consciousness

an aftermath of numbers past their prime

Silent Live Stream

As I stroll along the banks of the Waikanae River, it becomes clear to me that the making of a poem is also the process of translating a pre-verbal phenomenon into an idiom that changes one's perception both of the phenomenon and of the language used to evoke it. Patterning words into poems has become for me an act of language-making that strains towards the unique utterance of what has hitherto been outside the apparent purview of language.

 

my haiku fails
as it assimilates
a metaphor