The Edge
It’s a small world.
But it’s a long way when you fall
off its Edge.
A drop so deep,
so vast as to torture even
the stoutest diver.
We all must take the plunge -
someday.
We crawl up to the edge,
as we peer over…
trembling as our friends leap
giggling in joy out into the
void
full knowing there might not
be a ground.
—————————-
Her
Spring visions, Apricot kisses-
coffee stained conversations
about art, love, sex and
dreams.
All shatter the illusion of age,
maturity and breath of
knowledge.
You’ve never met her,
yet you know her…
She stands next to you
and you quiver,
Lost in her presence.
She smiles and the rain clings
to life for a beat longer -
delaying it’s untimely
destruction on the pavement
beneath her -
All for one more chance at the
sound of her
laughter.
So after watching a documentary last night on Japan and remembering fondly my journeys there I thought I’d try my hand at some english versions of Haikus – the basics are five syllables for first sentence, seven syllables for second sentence and five for the last one. I wrote them down today while thinking about the past week over lunch…
Broken leaf falls up
Cold fisherman sews his net
Morning sun shines true
———–
Lustful Dragon cries
Summer wind hot on my face
Her love walks away
—————
A lonely deer hides
Green leaves blow in the spring wind
Angry Bear gives chase
———-
I think I”m going to start trying to create Haikus for the hipstamatic photos I take and post here…to help with the mood.
My friend and mentor Edward Kinney said these two things yesterday and I found them to be very true and inspiring…
“You have to stop seeing just the object; that’s how the food gathers see – NOT how artists see”
and
“Artists function at their highest when they are in touch with their impulses.”
In so many ways do I envy them,
yet they often loose sight
of what is true.
What is pure.
They dance but they don’t feel.
They sing but they don’t hear.
They draw but they don’t see.
It is life’s greatest irony that age
makes you respect these things
more.
Summer -
Heat, sticky, hot,
wet misty jazz
the smell of old beer
wafting from the
twilight dumpster.
Her shoe’s sparkle
dimmed by the
drunken sick from
a friend.
The homeless man
clutches his half full
beer – sipping it as if
tomorrow will never
come.
The new couple
lost in themselves
giggle
as the warm rain starts –
dreaming of the freedom
of nakedness.
A lone horn calls
out echoing down the
alley inviting, hoping
to find its mate…
A cheer erupts from the
nearby bar as someone
wins one more drinking contest -
one more headache in the morning
forgotten in the moment of
camaraderie.
Gaggles of girls clustered
together drunk on
the night nectar,
roam the streets in search
of their nightly nesting
spot.
A girl and her dog play
in the fountain drunk
on life escaping the heat
of the day,
while the guitar player
breaks a string playing
for spare change.
The blindman smiles
from across the square
his candy bar box
almost empty from
the days sale.
The tip tap of his cane
drifts off into the
nights breeze,
captured by the outstretched
arms of the ancient oaks.
Silent sentinels ever watching,
ever listening to the
stories of
summer.
July 3rd, 2008 Circa pub