Fiddlehead Fern Plays An Early Note

Here’s the 7th installment of winter Haikus. My goal: a total of 107 Forest Haikus and mini ‘coyote’ poems over the winter, sharing in groups of 10. (See the others: Cricket’s Eye Point-of-View, Being Stalked By A Forest, Wings Like Boomerangs, My Tent is Leaking Haikus, Always Coming and Going, and Dancing Naked In the Rain)
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IMG_7830Nettles in my cup
eastern light slides over plum
blossoms popping white
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In a morning mood
a choir of coyotes
sing the winter morn
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Early second moon
haikus in the morning frost
jays write them better
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Mushrooms emerging—
A Potawatomi word
has it: puhpowee!
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Pink in the morning
white and yellow with the sun—
daisy eyes open
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Music of the woods
fiddlehead of lady fern
play you on my tongue
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A fiddlehead fern
early note of forest spring
makes a tasty treat
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On the edge of flight
will she jump out of her nest,
Little fledgling moon?
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February moon
caught in the branches again
will she ever learn?
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Cold night, morning frost
only thing hot is my blood
on a low boil
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Mid-winter dream:
liberation by solstice
But first—bad habit

 

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The Down and Up of It

descentBetween the building up
and tearing down
there’s a canyon thin
as laurel leaf
wide as Turtle Island

I used to flail in the gorge
nearly drowning in dark waters
cracking my pretty head on rocks
collecting bruises like bees gather pollen

Then I learned to leap across
or build a skinny bridge–
a fast but dishonest way

So I relinquished shortcuts
and learned the down and up of it
and joined the ancient apprenticeship
of descent and ascent

hopping boulders like some
drunken wizard of the mountain
jackrabbit of all shades, master of sun

I’ve lost track of how many times
a day I carry water between
my letting go and claiming–
thirsty in equal measures

But sit here satiated on lichened stone
walking between the horizons
of all my risings and settings

The puddle’s muddy,
and sometimes the muddle’s puddy,
but the surface is a mirror
that doesn’t lie, reflecting

a sun that’s ripe for plucking
like an unlikely winter plum
drifting like a scent in the wind
and a moon that’s always sliding out
from between her prison bars
ever flowing her unfolding

Canto Misterioso

cosmos2Affectionate ancient cock mind
crows the sun boldly

climbing the audacious pyramid
of unchaining.

What womb soul
of blessed silent recline whispers:

“Can you hear me?”

Ripened She Hawk
of night serene.

“Walk the contours
of bestial belonging
towards the sky
and pour the mysterious song
into noble hooded moon.

The web is in the wind
weaving the horizon
ribbon magnetic.”

An eye and ear proliferates.

“Can you hear me?”

Eclipse of the Super Blue Blood Moon

super blue blood moonIn your uncanny orb of night, join these
Gathered ingredients of earth and sky,
Bold eremite of the winter season.
Blushing argent cheeks with ancient red wine
In the darkling hour of your silent
Transfiguration: Let the pot boil.

Hue with bodies heaving spells the spicy
Concatenation of your churning dish.

Accept the earthly shadow and resist not
The wondrous gravity of the moment.
With light and dark thy destined orbit’s marked.

Wax gibbous and grow a pregnant shaping
Of some image towards unfurled freedom

From that uncooked root called fear, a toxin
Spreading through the whole like soured liquid

And festering, sinks a sumptuous stew–
The more ingested, the more hunger too.

Now the lunatic transmutation made
Not by magic, nor with wand of wizard
But by channeled heat and moves cathartic.

Stir with patience the hearty blend within
Until all poison into sweetness changed.

Behold a new fruit, orb oracular!
Transliberating itself down the west
By and through and with that which holds it all.
A Peach, vigorous belly earthbound bent
And bruised. — Merely emblem of its ripeness.

Pluck it from the sky! Break your holy fast
With holy hunger and greet the dawn with
A wild and boisterous jubilance:
Sun in one hand, the moon in the other
With nectar dripping down your canny face.

Owl Saint of Night

owl of minerva
“The owl of Minerva takes its flight
only when the shades of night are gathering” – Hegel
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the crickets howl at dusk
amidst the peace

at the edge of the meadow
a cold hoot stands sentinel

and a great hunger arises
from the center of things

seeking satisfaction
along the perimeter

Rabbit bows her head
in quiet ceremony

safe from shadows swinging
down without a sound

Oh Owl Saint of Night
creamy rhythm in furtive flight

knives from killer sky
piercing jugular, jumping
screaming bunny, heaving
high-pitch horror, bleeding
body kicking, raining
remains of rabbit rapidly
dying into darkness, flying
final thoughts as these:

“hope is not the thing
with feathers, and for all
the feathers fine
a bitter chill it was,
the bitter chill was mine.”
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the curtain closes with a hoot
on ancient afternoon

as Artemis smiles from the east
a winter silence resumes

Dancing Naked in the Rain

IMG_7027I’ve been immersing myself in the Japanese masters, Issa, Bashō, Buson, Shiki.

The haiku form is deceptively simple–more difficult than it appears, if you want to abide by some traditional conventions.

My goal is to create a total of 107 Forest Haikus and mini ‘zen’ poems over the winter. I’ll share in groups of 5-10. Here are the first few:

Not the only one
dancing naked in the rain
joined by Mister Newt
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Going on a walk
enjoy your mid-day orgy,
lovely ladybugs
——————————————–
Light from autumn moon
casting shadows from redwoods
across my bald head
——————————————–
November redwoods
an unspeakable silence
jet engine roaring
——————————————–
Look, there’s a rainbow!
covering my shit with dirt,
I’m in awe of both
——————————————–
You dropped some feathers
Mister Peregrine Falcon
I’ll keep them for you
——————————————–
Just a few days old
and walking across the sky
my baby moon
——————————————–
I’m learning some things
Not sure what it is quite yet
leaking in like rain
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No protection here
November’s got me knocked up
with baby poems
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Deep autumn sitting
coyote yipping on verge
of liberation