Dream through haiku

A bench
on horizon
leaf shadow,

a hairbrush of love,
the kind that takes
breath away,

chokes, frees.
Slam the door open
to daylight.
                         
                           (letter d rebels)

April 28th 2011

I haven't read the news yet.

I hold a little bird that just flew back
from a vision of bruises on alliterative dusk,

dandelions in cement cracks,
a devil with fork drawn on the top side
of the boat-- no fish today.

A newspaper page
next to violet daisies.
Ah! narrow road toward the sea.

Who said it was spring

I'd like to start
from the beginning,
end at the end
like Alice in Wonderland

without rushing
all the time, though.
A frameless picture:

a fisherman
who has to patiently wait,
maybe return home
with no catch.

That's how we all
feel sometimes.
I do anyway.
Naked under the rain,

soaked with enlightened
spits from hell
when it should
be heaven.

Jazz session

There's no use really.
What I mean can't be 
written in few words
with lipstick or fire.
A fly buzzes around 
this moment of stop 
everything, nothing exists.
It's only a box
made of flickering 
sounds out of clown lands. 
Sleep revolves, too--
secret truths you could 
die or live for.

War child

Leaf

why can't I be you, 

fall and resurrect 

in the breeze?

The child wakes. 

Her doll is missing

from under her pillow. 

She would kill

to have it back.

She throws a stone 

in a rivulet of leaves, 

dies. 

Does heaven exist?

Gods line up 

behind the sun 

like toy soldiers 

on a shelf. 

Two fish pretending to be humans

At breakfast I'm sure other thoughts
could surface, besides horror
or speculations on intrinsic behaviours--

the various and mostly useless
explanations to life's events.
My frothy coffee: a dirty ocean
in a tub with play boats and a duck.

I'm a sailor, too.

On the horizons behind hills
where sun is a memory
and yellow is the colour of depths
we met

and spoke like philosophers:
about fear, the meanings of everything,
the contradictions in human nature.

One night we swam apart,
sore-finned and hungry, leaving
our cases behind.

A semi-abstract swarm of birds

I am letting my brain

fly free on the horizon:

a white bandana covers

a scar on the right side,

below the hairline; a tiny

crescent moon decorates

the left corner. The rest of me

is a shadow. A child's voice

cries: I am guilty. Please,

save me. I am neither

an angel nor a devil.

I'll allow you to drag me

through dirt, arrange yellow

flowers on my kitchen table,

poke fun at me.

There's a stone with eyes

and ears. For days

I collected all sorts,

compared them to traumas,

wasp bites and wisdom,

put them in a vase of sun.

Writing identities

I started out as
a shadow leaning
over a fence,
observing myself
closely

as though I were trying
to untangle
a rhetorical figure
from the tiniest

moon. I smiled,
half-mesmerized,
half-stunned, wondering
about the meaning of anything.

I was in the middle
of a rainbow,
a place of oz,
where the unconscious
dissolves,
a troubadour without a name,
an origin or identity.

I erased the words
I had written some time ago;
yes and no and back
to the first time,

the first step--
like walking on the moon,
a snowball in my hands.

Conversations at the dinner table

A low humming
harmonica fills the air
in this late summer

morning, rises over a distant

mountain, a stone house

where I left a poem.

Again, I will recite the soliloquies
of Shakespeare, as if I Miranda,
Juliet, Ophelia,
could change the world.

Truth is an echo in the middle
of the sea, corpses floating

like pieces of old wood.

Time is one long day
that ends with a murmuring sigh.

Everyone's still asleep.

A new act begins.
Something has gone wrong.

Repeat -- I believe what I'm saying --
repeat
repeat.

Was is it a memory?

When it stops raining

the world is no longer a memory,

it's a kind of revolution.

Like all the pictures I've taken--

they have no titles.

How about this one:

Lie on the rug of intentional cloud soft any colour

will do.

Or

Stretch out and cry

with the dead.

I don't know.

Yes! A sort of revolution.

The opposite of brainwashing;

nonetheless, background music

has its appeal.

Neurons fallen from clouds

are now fireflies.

Spermatozoa
fight one another
for rain.

There's a nudist
beach behind the hill.

In Capri you can forget who you are.

The Greeks were naked,

so was everyone

who came after,

the smell of sperm

washed away.

Mug and sweat

That was the only time

I couldn't find the way to the stars.

I woke up and the whole sky was pressing

against my body, suffocating, taunting

about how I was a loser,

a spider hiding in a dead end

transparent wall--as cold as a frosty morning

on a January work day. So I rebelled.

After having watched The Last King of Scotland,

and repressed ideas of heavens on earth,

I planned to carry out a research

on the psychology of a dictator

such as Idi Amin, and dictatorship.

I've called it running

through a tunnel of deceit

where flowers blossom at night.

to the bell-samphire

violet bell-flowers, what little scruffs
vetch, what dead ground
Steve Parker


summer has melted inside a bell-flower

I rub my skin with its dreams

fall naked to the hot chilli earth and cry

elves of the woods:

make a song of the sea

wake the night from consonants in petals

invent a name for this flower here

scream after each orgasm on the dead land

someone looks for the bell-flower