white space speaks,
tells what was left behind...
the hands unpainted on the walls
of caves, were there
and are no more...
when we are gone,
will there be a painted presence,
some design of our days
left for those who come
after; some ghostly outline
of the creator left,
stark and unforgettable,
signaling by emptiness
the fullness that once was?
our lives like vessels
built of clay or glass
or leather-bound
grow up around us
day by day...
our deeds and thoughts
congeal in some contour
and then we're gone,
the vessel bleak and dry...
what shape remains?
could someone ages hence look
and reconstruct
what filled it to the brim?
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Fire (a cinquain)
Fire
my favorite theme,
joyous and self-contained,
winks a knowing eye and waits for
escape
Susan Murata
my favorite theme,
joyous and self-contained,
winks a knowing eye and waits for
escape
Susan Murata
Monday, March 15, 2010
Risk
It isn’t risk that brings the Great
Blue Heron north
before it’s safe for him.
That last wet snowfall
blinds him, leaves him knock-kneed,
stranded in an icy stream
staring down his breakfast.
But it doesn’t mean a thing.
Don’t take to heart this change,
this sudden shift away
from how it’s all supposed to be.
Risk is only in the naming.
The Great Blue does as he has always:
flies north when the urge comes on,
knowing he will find his stream
his brackish tidal pond
and all those fish.
He can hardly wait to start.
I suppose he has a memory of what was
at his journey’s end in former years:
a nor’easter’s snarling face
spits snow and sleet and then
melts back into the sea.
If we would only do what we must -
do what our urges say -
how much less prey to fear of risk
we’d be, how much more
open to the bounty at the end:
foolish schools of racing minnows,
fat young frogs who close their eyes,
and lazy summer days at twilight
before the long and winged flight home.
Susan Murata
Blue Heron north
before it’s safe for him.
That last wet snowfall
blinds him, leaves him knock-kneed,
stranded in an icy stream
staring down his breakfast.
But it doesn’t mean a thing.
Don’t take to heart this change,
this sudden shift away
from how it’s all supposed to be.
Risk is only in the naming.
The Great Blue does as he has always:
flies north when the urge comes on,
knowing he will find his stream
his brackish tidal pond
and all those fish.
He can hardly wait to start.
I suppose he has a memory of what was
at his journey’s end in former years:
a nor’easter’s snarling face
spits snow and sleet and then
melts back into the sea.
If we would only do what we must -
do what our urges say -
how much less prey to fear of risk
we’d be, how much more
open to the bounty at the end:
foolish schools of racing minnows,
fat young frogs who close their eyes,
and lazy summer days at twilight
before the long and winged flight home.
Susan Murata
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