love: recast

love is laughing
to yourself, quietly
as you gaze

over to see the full
glass of soda which
you were asked to fetch

just sitting there, untouched
while condensation, diamond-like
beads rearrange this reflection

an affection distorted
segmented by ice and glass
recast into my eyes

and carbonation continues
to rise, because she fell
asleep again, in her usual spot

waiting for me
to become sleepy
too tired - to read or write

Haiku and Tanka Needed

Promise of Light Publications is seeking
submissions of superb haiku and tanka for a book.



I should clarify something. The haiku and tanka we seek are what’s known as the traditional English haiku and tanka, consisting of 5-7-5 and so on. I appreciate the fact that many North American authors have their own perspectives on how many English syllables a haiku should contain, and have indeed changed the way haiku is written in English today. But regardless of differences in languages, a 5-7-5-written haiku can be just as powerful and effective as any variation of the form I’ve seen. And although haiku written in English has evolved from 5-7-5, and truth seems to be the motivator in such transformations, when an author’s word choices are of high caliber, the nature theme is there with some humanistic quality, the traditional form shines.

This is not an opening statement for debate. It is, however, this editor’s opinion and should be taken into account when submitting poetry in these forms.

Foggy Thoughts of Blame

I wonder if you’ve thought about it a thousand times, like I have. I wonder if each day is like a thousand days of reflection, like they have been for me. Is this sibling rivalry? Or am I crazy? Psychotic as you say? I find blame in my shame, in my name, a game our parents taught us to play, but blame all the same. The song says "say it loud, say it clear . . . I wish I could have told him in the living years . . . it’s too late when we die." And now I cry. I wrote a thousand poems today, but none made to the paper, none were sharp enough to overcome this mist, to cut this fog of blame.

Pills. More fucking pills. Give him medication, something for his aggravation. You see James we all have our ups and downs. But your ups are WAY up. And your downs are too low. We’re going to give you some medication. Your heart beats twice as fast as the average human’s. Something’s just not right. It’s me you fuck. I’m not right. I should have been a good boy. I shouldn’t have awoken mother. I should have hidden my scars and bruises better. I shouldn’t have told father. That’s why they hated each other. It WAS me. I take it all. If things were better, if I was better, dad would have been at home that night. We would have never been awoke to the news of our father, our superman, dead, never to love us, never to put his hand on my shoulder and say that’s okay son. It’s all going to be okay.

That’s all I have now. I take it all.

Dear Dad

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These deceased years: like an unidentified flash in the night.

the same flash that haunts me
day after day is father’s day

Dead Father’s day

I wish this day possessed magic
so I could tell you that I’m sorry
for all my wrongs, for not being a better son

when I see your grandchildren
whom you have never
I know that you are here
in the water of the stream
in the laughter of these children
who only know you as a picture

I can hear their smiles
as I hide and mourn
my Dead Father’s day

I will go to them
and fish as we would

I will listen to the spill
run over the rocks
and between our feet

trying all the while

to be here . . . right here
not reassembling time
to the day before

Dead Father’s day

Inspiration to Explore

I found inspiration in Erin's blog today.

I did it over the phone as well.




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Lunatic


. . . and a mixture
of gray and dark-blue

clouds passed across
the moon's surface

like exhaled smoke
from psychotic lungs

lingering around
lucidity's neon light

The Calling

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Take shape poet

I call him


Take shape poet

He hears me


Take shape poet

He begins to relax


Take shape poet

Our voices blend


taking shape as one

~~~~~~~~~

Curvy Yellow Lines of Night

open my eyes

peel back the early
layers of unconsciousness
to reveal morning’s fresh

flesh of bright orange psychosis

tasty with toast and coffee
tea or shattered shards of disappointment
scattered remnants of scarred relationships

lie in the road as I

close my eyes
to the pain of day
rays of confusion

leave me blind
only afterimages
flash in my broken mind

while I follow these
curvy yellow lines of night
leading me through this recurring

dream, stretching my endurance . . . as far as it will go . . . .

Symbolism

I realized some years ago
that I didn’t need to stand
over the burial ground of
my father, to be close to him

but that he existed in corridors

of thought, and anywhere, be it
earth or concrete, pulpit or leaf
I could be enveloped by his spirit

a spirit kept alive by human feeling

And so, markers upon the earth
or urns sitting quietly upon their mantles
ash in the wind, dissolved by water, they are

merely (but importantly) symbols

calming

our fear that we may forget

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A Literary Hybrid

It appears, when I wrote the poem, Transition, I created a new word,
a literary hybrid: envisionistic, to describe a crystal clear mental view
or a person, a sign or symbol of a certain belief, truly seeing.

~ James Eric Watkins

And water-like droplets of thought expanded, absorbing the light,
drifting))))))))))))))))))) outward)))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))away from~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~his~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~mind