Tanka
Moths play outdoors,
Street light and a summer night,
Not in the wardrobe
Where they are safe and cozy
Eating Uncle Fred’s old suit
Tanka
I sit in the yard
The soft night rests on my lap
String photos of you
On a necklace of memories
And I think of dawn and love
Tanka
The moon cannot fly
It asks of you to be its wings
Imagination;
Not so very difficult,
Recall the buzz of first love.
An ancient moon lay warped, fluttering,
In the moss-reeking fishy pond, flickering.
The cool night air raking archaic sentiments,
Stale, evoked only hollow consequences,
And it looked as though my mind was reflecting
In the rippling glassy darkness,
As I searched for the two,
the mind and the moon.
A frog-like thought leaped in on to the surface,
Deranging and scattering the images.
The water seemed uneasy and nervous,
Incompetent to deflect radiance and
The darkened glitter basked in the gloominess.
Up in the heavens the clouds shrouded the glow,
The firmament a black blanket of holes.
Reality of life, the sheaths, the five domains
Prohibited love to enter the remains
Of old age’s distrustful psyche, to which, a breeze,
Now tried to respond in vain, to mellow.
The facade of the make believe, made no efforts
To defend and delude with its time worn enticements
Lasting only the life span of the trembling moths.
Looking up and down, there was no trace,
Inside the blanket or under the rippling glass,
The dismal haze, of a round, scarred face.
The static is great
The edgy horizon looks like a dozen beers
I creep into folding bed linen
Wishing I was dead 20 times
She is snoring
I’m growing a beard
The teeth are decaying
The limbs are shortening
I lift the book to read
And see I can’t see so
I put on the $2 glasses and
Glimpse lines that finally make sense
Keith Nunes
Pictures…
Of sunsets on the dawn,
Birds serenading the moon,
Wind sweeping the stars,
Of liquid blue ice,
Of footprints on water
Sketches on the mind canvas…
Words…
That are tripping down a sound
Forsaken by Father Time,
Or drifting above the sand
Frozen in white light,
Like handprints on the wind…
With random thought,
And manipulated words…
The pictures of poetry are written!
Samantha Braum