Senryu (arrivals)

early morning flight
open arms meet open hearts
family gathers

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Red

The roof of my house is red.
The blood that gives me life, is red.
My favourite t-shirt is faded – red.
When I close my eyes, I see red.
The past is rusty, and red.
The fire that keeps me warm, is red
She is my life –
She is red.

Micro Tales x 3

#1

Blue




Broken glass litters the floor.

As I hug my daughter against my shattered heart.

I feel her warm tears.

We sit huddled against the refrigerator door.

All this breakage...

She’ll want to come back to us again…

.

.

.

…I’ll probably say yes...










#2

Green




The sun is a pale disc.

The fog bank moves in from the South.

Everywhere is grey and shrouded,

Except the grass beneath my feet.

It remains green for me - 

even when she’s not here.







#3

Orange




Marigolds

Strung in long chains

Drape from balconies and across pergolas

A hubbub of voices

A riot of colour

An extravaganza of flavours

A painted elephant

A sacred fire

Two souls are joined

Zen Garden (micro-tale)

Removing his slippers

He stepped barefooted onto the smooth pebbles.

Moving slowly, he stooped occasionally,

Careful to collect every fallen, red maple leaf –

Then, using the bamboo rake

He carefully made the patterns she’d loved.

Sitting on a low wooden bench

He now drank his tea and remembered.

This Life

While the days become short

And the nights much longer,

And my mind digs deeper

And stirs up the mud –

And then clouds my dreams.

.

In fitful sleep I’m troubled

And filled with self doubt,

And clinging to straws

And words of kind friends –

And trying to focus on good.

.

When dawn fills my eyes

And once again I am calm,

And family stands beside me

And reminds me of fine times –

And the kindnesses we’ve shared.

.

I fill my lungs with fresh air

And my heart with their love,

And my mind with sound knowledge

And my hands with hard work –

And go on rejoicing this life.

Senryu (Broken)

some things get broken

in caring hands they are fixed –

or they mend crooked

.

.

.

.

I photographed this stencil in Dunedin, New Zealand – it was pasted to the back of a bus stop.

No more

She came to me in silence.

Her heart clinging to her sleeve –

Begged me not to see the violence

And prayed that I wouldn’t leave.

 
 

I need to talk was all she said.

Her dark downcast eyes revealed –

The pain of sharing, easily read.

So with words we hoped this could be healed.

 

A life of promise was nearly over –

The tipping point showed in her scars.

The truth at last – like a three leaf clover.

Barefoot now she could not pass.

 

Her life she gave to this broken man –

His promise sealed with a golden ring.

Her body has given everything It can.

Trapped in this cage she cannot sing.

 

No more, she whispered on my shoulder –

Her bones so fragile under hand.

She said this time it’s truly over.

She’d found the nerve to make her stand;

The door is slammed; her final bow –

… It’s ok Sis, you’re back home now.