Stone Soup

Today I recall the years when, as destitute students, we occasionally gathered together from all over the inner city to share a meal. The host would fill a large pot with water, drop a large stone into it, and place it on a hot stove. Each guest would then bring their offering obtained from food cooperatives and communal gardens to add to the pot. Offerings of onions (both red and brown), carrots, celery, potatoes, leeks, pumpkin, parsnip, spinach, capsicum and so on joined seasonings and herb garnishes to gather the many into one.

When it was ready we would break bread and consume the feast.

dewfall —
the ripples en route
from a single word

 

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may day —
a distress of leaves
labours on
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prayer flags
the wind takes up
while words falter
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red leaves
now just the dark wine
of peace
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offered up
quiet as a comet
her breath cloud
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windless!
a child racing
the moon
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the moon tonight —
light's  reiteration
of the incomplete
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spring rain
sound plip plopping
from the eaves
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between stars
loneliness takes on
darker tones
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tone poem —
autumn rattles
into a mosaic
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look at this!
the one I am
in sleep
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roadside diner
bluebottles flash
briefly blue
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skimming stone . . .
identity theft
in the air
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mother's day —
forest mist stretches
beyond the smog
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mist-mired moon
another haiku
backspaced over
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deep autumn:
clear water wells up
through darkness
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dawn coolness . . .
first words air-brushing
the breath of god
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leaf-loud breeze
in the otherness
of light
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autumn funk
I don't want his damn'd mower
anyway
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grandfather clock!
what on earth
keeps it ticking?
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pissed on
the last food trail
of some ants
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footnotes 
to a drama 
without words
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without light
let there be
nothing but
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pft! spring!
I gorge myself
on cherries
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back-chatter —
time to go jump
in the lake
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man-malled
muzak oozes into
the marble
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yesterday's issnues . . .
onan disseminating
deformination
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Dad: 11 May 1914 - 7 March 1991
Mum: 16 April 1920 - 27 July 2009
 
here to there --
filling the dashes
with my self

 

 

 
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late prayer —
ink blot clouds astride
the white
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chance of words in nocturnal reverie

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with wide eyes
words as spare as
cave paintings
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evening waves —
I remember her touch
silent as a comet
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keeping in touch our mitochondrial Eve

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alone at last at a dead stop .

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head shot
my personal pronouns
shedding capitals
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look to the clouds!
there is an earthquake
in the air
 
Not really a haiku, more a presentiment I had for the coming week.
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When Pentecost day came round
 
within fire
the tongue-tied voice
of the pine
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first frost . . .
whiteness clings on
in the shade

28/05/2015

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set horizontal the s....u....n stretches out along one line

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first frost . . .
rigor mortis creeps
along the lawn
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by moonlight
the landscape the woman
becoming 
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fog of war droning on and on

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mist swans
weave through the ritual
of evening
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undergrowth —
a condom wrapper spent 
among the leaves
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light
moments before
alit
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out of sleep
erasures of light
redefine it
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autumn ends —
my image stripped back
to bare bones
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Make It New
 
 
Days and months are the wayfarers of measured time, living in an unimaginable reality 
just as the years that slip by.  For those who have always known of the self-creating stars which
live drifting with the currents of an everyday truth in which ordinary perceptions are denied,
or leading a horse by the bridle into old age, overturned, the mind thrust into a channel in which
each day is an exploration, the wandering itself the formerly unknowable because then unimaginable
home.
 

spliced genes
an unnamed seed quickens
the groundwork
 
- Adapted from Oku no Hosomichi by Matsuo Basho and The Carpathians by Janet Frame
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I have been observing a strong writer-resistance to submitting my written words for formal publication. Self-reflection has yet to determine whether this is because of inertia or pride. It is much like the unease generated in allowing a photograph to be taken of oneself within a particular moment; freezing the instant while immersed in the process of aging and change.
 
It is the uninterrupted process of change that gives the truest delight. What is written is the decayed manure of the present in its seemingly endless decomposition.
 
The one who writes this is no more than the child who once ran alongside riverbanks in cicada-drenched air seeking out eel shadows in the infolding of water under a pristine sun. My words make present again his real presence yet he is buried within the words that consecrate who he is.
 
morning fog —
the flesh of shadows
cast by words
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