all black scrum—
the darkness within
in three lines
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a mud crab
digging in deeper . . .
tidal shift
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spring twilight—
prayer germinates
in silence 
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green light—
who am I
in spring?
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whisper breath—
I am who I am
candle flame
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spring water—
I reflect within
the without
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mist shapes 
an ontological 
argument
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deepening dusk— 
the devil escapes
the details
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darkening words— 
a frog croaks in the sound
of itself
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a helicopter
crystallises into sound
from the blueness
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rising light— 
clouds effervesce along
day's plimsoll line
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crescent moon
a smile of benevolence
goes awry
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grey matter 
on an intercept course
between seer and seen
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after a spent day
words sink back into the slime
of their origin
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deep prayer
spring water rises
everywhere
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the stillness
after the birth
unravelling star charts
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All Soul's Day
the combatants tally up
their losses
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cancer ward
nothing imagined now
is not the moon
 
in memory of H. Gene Murtha 
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star gazing—
the emptiness
of it all
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fallow ground—
harrowing the hell
of being
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twilight walk—
a pregnant girl praises me 
for going barefoot
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womb-dead words—
'mama' and 'tata'
missing still
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Bashō and the Sound of Water
 
 
Midway on the way he was bound upon, Bashō was seized by a restless spirit that coaxed him into the heartland, where poetry and spirituality become one, and where he could follow the footfall of the ancients through Japan's poetic spaces.  He yielded to the seductive sound of pond ripples lapping the mysterious edge of the dreadful sphere of Pascal.
 
Well over three hundred years after Dante, Bashō looked to wanderer-priest Saigyō to be the Virgil who would inspire him through the narrow and difficult roads that wound ahead and within. Landscapes, through which he wandered, became infused with collective memory and complex emotions encompassing the profane right through to the sacred, and culminating in true vision as he beheld Sado Island.
 
Some years later, he wrote several autumn haiku infused with a despair born of an overwhelming loneliness. Falling ill on his final journey, his spirit feverishly searched a desolate limbo for what may have been his Beatrice and the love which moves the sun and the other stars.
 
The need to hear the sound beyond stillness drives all our journeying, and is its fulfilment. 
 
 
midnight—
my lungs widen
with stars
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on edge
fantails atwitter
stride the blast
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waxing crescent—
the earth-borne fresh-faced
their song primal
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midnight—
my lungs widen
with stars
 
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earth stump—
shadows spiral down 
its yesterdays
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mass exodus
the sacrificial lamb
hidden away
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stringing words
in a sing-song
of becoming
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distant spring—
a sixtieth candle
still unlit
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by cloud light
a nuclear family
shadows the wall
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rising or falling?
the intonation of all
these questions
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peek-a-boo!
between her fingers
a war reddens
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remaking haiku
in creation's own image
and likeness
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in spring rain
the depth of reflection
that passes for me
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in spring rain
the distance once so near
now so far
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in spring rain
mockery of the drought
still to come
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deep-sea moon—
labyrinthine is
the kingdom
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spring kigo . . .
and I dotting 'i's
crossing 't's
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in spring rain
scarlet runner beans
crack the surface
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cumuli—
my spring into
non-being
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nothing
in a process of 
osmosis
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wing-flapping
over primal seas
heaven hound
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te po
here I breathe
your last
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out of season
autumnal haiku
from abroad
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climate change— 
a tuatara through
its third eye
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Spring
 
 
something moves with darkness fresh green
 
planting fruit of the earth human hands
 
remember man the dust in we sprang
 
in blossom born butterflies
 
nothing so near lushness of now
 
ground dark the end begin
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amid lushness
an idle idea 
of order
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is that it?
an overdone show
of words
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days overcast beyond their reach

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