Feeling not meaning.
BBEFORE BASHO THERE WAS NO BASHO
A simple tree branches an active
imagination. I feel like someone
from the 12th century bare, raped,
pillaged twisted and torn.
The computer is my insulted quill,
a blackbird visits me and two
Magpies touch and touch me
above the mini daffodils.
Is rhyme what I’m searching for?
I don’t think so. Before Basho
there was no Basho, beyond poetry
words have an inner rhyme. I seek
feeling not meaning.
Basho
Translated into my world, it’s as if he’s here saying if your verse has one or two more or less sounds you need not to worry, give them crucial scrutiny, make the sound syllable true.
Butterfly Flutter
nature opens up and drifts
like time itself
Strong coffee, pipe-
Tobacco and Tao Te Ching
you can’t beat the way.
Get off your high horse
of capitalism, speak
to me of humanity
I killed a wasp in
the bathroom with seamus heaneys
electric light
ff
you can’t bureat the way.
I killed a wasp in the bath-
Electric Light.
Snippets of silken shadow.
The dream it seems I've been
I killed a wasp in the bath-
Electric Light.
Snippets of silken shadow.
The dream it seems I've been
Matsuo Basho
The master of mind
And disability
Genuine Touch
I killed a wasp in the bath-
Room with Seamus Heaney’s’
Electric Light.
The sound of yellow
And black squelching
Against the windowpane
And the soft-back cover
Like a sudden charge
Of blue.
The Dream
Snippets of silken shadow.
The dream it seems I've been
having all my life flickers
in the light of day.
A catalyst without ink to stain
undulating through silk screen
frames, images appear.
White on white, in sleep it was
a bomb-blast of colour, all that
remains is shadow, words
I stored for this poem
lie fragmented
on the page.
Genuine Touch
I killed a wasp in the bath-
Room with Seamus Heaney’s’
Electric Light.
The sound of yellow
And black squelching
Against the windowpane
And the soft-back cover
Like a sudden charge
Of blue.
The Dream
Snippets of silken shadow.
The dream it seems I've been
having all my life flickers
in the light of day.
A catalyst without ink to stain
undulating through silk screen
frames, images appear.
White on white, in sleep it was
a bomb-blast of colour, all that
remains is shadow, words
I stored for this poem
lie fragmented
on the page.
Poetry helps me
to survive my poverty
good for the soul
Surrounded by dis-
Ability, hand rails, piss
Pots and wheelchairs
A butterfly flutters
By out of beauty
On stroke ward.
A crow caws black
Through the trees
On a moon-shine day.
A sunshine day-
By myself, spooning
Porridge gruel.
BEHIND THE BLUE DIsABLED DOOR
A life in almost Haiku
Behind the blue dis-
abled door that opens automatic
to let in care –
my mother gave me
something to get something
humanity
my dad played cards
to pass away the long day
heart attack blues
The girl from housing
called and said: you shouldn’t
be living like this
Past went up in smoke.
From the kitchen to computer
that’s my day, writing
moment us pomes like
this today. Compelled to write
Black-hole pomes.
His memory began
in two thousand and five-
When he woke from stroke
Coma, paralyzed down
right side with no speech. He spent
a year in a re-hab
hospital learning
to be himself again-
A year of trying
to dress himself and make a cup of tea.
nature opens up and drifts
like time itself
Strong coffee, pipe-
Tobacco and Tao Te Ching
you can’t beat the way.
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