On Richard Gilbert's 61st birthday
 
 
baby boomers rattle their sixties
 
chanting 'amandla!'
baby boomers ski 
the downhill slope
 
sexagenarians shooting blanks
 
moonstruck
I become
its alibi
 
time-tide
no turning back 
on itself
 
Is this the way the world ends?
Is this the way the world ends?
Is this the way the world ends?
Not with a bang but with a boomer.
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Glaucoma

 
glaucoma—
a seer at odds
with vision
 
light
strains the edges
of itself
 
astride dreams
horizons gather
to the flame
 
under the weather
my eyes acclimatise
to their ends
 
climate change
I feel the earth
for a pulse
 
optic pressure—
vision swells up
in words
 
measured—
the range of vision
and words
 
all dark!
between stars
my light
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deep dreaming a plum tree blooms

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a breath of light
wind ripples
the waters
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see the light
in the undergrowth
where we dream
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insomnia
the moon returns
my shadow
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sun shower
the otherness
of us
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Hiroshima - 70th Anniversary of the Bombing
 
 
Hiroshima
in flames of being
here and now
 
is this light?
a little boy's weight
on the wide island
 
rain fills
the space that was
once yours
 
on ones so silent
the full impact
of a scientific yes
 
silence falls
like a mushroom
from the Enola Gay
 
hollowness
rings out loud
from the sky
 
i am
become death
atom by atom
 
mumbling sky
the build up of heat
to come
 
a true man
without the sounds
of agony
 
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Nagasaki - 70th Anniversary of the Bombing
(dedicated to Kaneko Tohta)
 
Nagasaki
where east meets west
treading fire
 
a fat man
implodes in light
the long cape
 
ground zero
a white wormhole
opens at mass
 
after light
dark stains of martyrdom
on stone walls
 
seared through
faces and forms
at worship
 
a fumi-e
in deafening silence
stomped under
 
kakure kirishitan
keloid hands break open
the bread of words
 
in light
the death of martyrs
reborn
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after rain
pavements come clean
on where they led
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deep-sea diving
moon-struck lovers enter
each other's shadows
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childhood home
I left my otherness
within you
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in her fingers
the daisy becomes
her ditty
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late snow
for a change the change
is seasonal
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haiku at dusk
my calculated foray
into silence
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thought fall
into my child
hood's was
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a rainbow
almost
all around
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long silences
the circadian rhythm
of cicadas
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Nagasaki bombing anniversary
 
fat man,
in your rain of terror
we rust
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turning leaves—
that to which I cling
stripped bare
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night goddess—
a fantail's fanbase
grows less
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when writing haiku 
must I learn to eschew
rhyme too?
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wind-huffed
a ripple of words
after me
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spring haiku—
images more and more
sound wordless
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primal scream!
this too, infected 
with words
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far beyond 
Hawking's horizon
a silence
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moonless night—
the distance that remains
of climate change
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somewhere in these words an absence lives on

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Truth
 

the statement in the next line is false
the statement in the previous line is false
 
rumours
of evanescence
persist
 
underterred
dead sea carrion
stilling stars
 
testament
of a foreign will
the flea bite
 
holding on 
to its becoming
a chrysalis
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ice melt—
my descendants snorkel 
down main street
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in the mist
te ika a Māui
takes my bait
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the wind tonight
becomes a symphony
of native chants
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wretched poet
seeding fathomless depths
with shallow words
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mass war grave—
a universe bleeds out
of dulled dreams
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wisps of valley mist
yield to the sun and are lost
to sky, to emptiness—
tell me again mayfly
just what has been the point?
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El Niño—
mother earth brings us
to our knees
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spring's early shoots—
brother sun, sister rain
reawaken me
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morphean
Mulla Nasrudin shifts
a candle
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fingering humus
again the innocence
I thought I once had
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mate tea—
my first love reborn
and her lips
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oatstraw tea—
the taste of reaping
what was sown
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winter's end mist moving the light

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through the puddles my progress

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petal shower—
the words I’ll never write 
sounding distant
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planting alone
in this too 
I am spring rain
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after frost
the vividness
of being
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from the soil
I tug away at
attachments
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red on white
the cross-cut
I abstain from
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wind sailing
a hawk
catches my breath
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making hay
while the sun still shines—
Wall Street zombies
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