ITS OWN PACE - Waka, a Japanese form of Poetry

Not lilacs, in this case, but lilac-colored bougainvillea

 

22
Its Own Pace

 

Nine, going on ten

With three months of summer, then

fifth grade at St. Luke’s

Reading assignments follow

Math class and Catechism

Ride your bike home; don’t

dilly-dally afterwards

or you’ll miss supper

Pies in the oven, chili

on the stove, wash your hands first

Please, thank you, and yes.

While lilacs bloom and grass grows,

hollows slowly fill

Moving forward, remember

your youth, forget the deep loss.

 

Most of my poems only bow politely to the renshi form of poetry. This poem is my attempt at the Japanese form of poetry known as waka, which is 3 lines of 17 syllables (5-7-5; this part later known as haiku) followed by two lines of 14 syllables (7-7).

 

The poem addresses a tragic situation in a young person’s life. The focus is on the coping mechanism of moving past the pain and incomprehensible nature of an unnatural occurrence. There are no parameters to restrict the types of tragedies that would cause such sorrow. To a child, delineations do not exist.

 

The hollowness that follows deep loss must fill slowly. Debilitating ache eases until only a dull throb persists as a reminder, often when one least expects the memory to rise. The challenge is to remember the goodness, the healthy body of youth, and endless possibilities of a hopeful future.

 

Being told to forget the deep loss does not mean to ignore the occurrence. Instead, allow the healing waters of time to gently flow through your mind, diluting pain and bitter sorrow along the way. Keep in mind, though, that poems do not offer advice. Rather, they draw from the reader’s own mind solutions already considered. In the peaceful atmosphere of quiet reading, it is possible to see solutions in a new light, and determine a course of action.

 

*****

 

LAST CALL: Squealing Kids #61

ANOTHER NEW BEGINNING

70 Poems for 70 Days 

 is a collection of linked poetry I wrote as a birthday present to myself and gifted in book format to 70 of my friends and family members. Over a period of 70 Sundays, I am submitting the poems in the order of composition, along with a short comment about the poem’s style or theme,
often including a complementary photograph.

With linked poetry, a form of Japanese Renshi poetry,

the last lines of one poem are used to form the title of the next poem,

then the next poem shifts to a different topic..

I hope you find a few entries that bring a smile to your face or a long buried memory to the surface of your consciousness. Poetry is like that, whether you are the reader or the author.

61

Last Call 

Dinner on the stove

Pie in the oven

Kids squealing

Outside, “You’re it.” 

Dad pulls in

Young ones run

to push

The garage door up 

Rusted chain

Sounds like

a game

Of squealing tag 

Hugs all around

“Why aren’t you washed for supper?”

“Mama never called.”

And now the pie smells burnt.

 

This is one of those “Twilight Zone” endings where the reader must determine the final outcome.

 

 

 

EVERY DAY, ANOTHER HOLIDAY #46, #47, and #48

Life has a way of moving forward, even when you feel you are making no progress. Each event is part of living. Not everyday can be a celebration or a holiday, and the troublesome times make the good times all that much better!

#46

Good Life Ahead

 

Heliconia Blooming in the Backyard

 

Unpaid leave, hospital stay

then home, empty-handed again.

Cupboards lacking

Wallet bare. 

Part-time work, nights

at the old folks home.

Salted crackers and loose tea bags

From the commissary cart. 

One day you will be

rich as Midas, with golden

sunshine gracing the lanai and

mangoes ripening on the shelf. 

Every day, another holiday.

 

* * * * *

 

#47

Another Holiday 

Her birthday and

opening day of fishing

clashed each year.

She said it did not matter when

they celebrated, or if the gift

was wrapped. 

The game continued

year to year:

he never forgetting to

plan ahead

she always joking that

one day the rules would change.

This year the same as last,

but different. Far beyond retired,

the fishing tackle sold.

The cake awash with surreal light,

they celebrate on Cloud 99.

Candles not required. 

This year the parents celebrated their 99^th birthdays in heaven, surrounded by the brilliant light of many relatives and friends. Their marriage was a loving partnership that allowed disagreement and compromise as acceptable avenues of dialogue. They instinctive knew how to pick their battles.

 

 * * * * *

 

#48

No Candles

Your special dessert, Auntie,

bring enough for everyone

Picnics in Neshotah Park;

Potluck; Easter on the farm. 

Memories accumulate.

The canvas fills with poppies,

like distant stars waking in

A shimmering sky. 

One final request,

if you have the time.

Can you bring

your special dessert, Auntie? 

I’ll wait for you.

 

A tribute to Auntie Lucille for her love-filled poppy seed cake with cream cheese frosting; and to Leigh for a final request fulfilled.

 

 * * * * *

 

This trilogy of linking poems is more personal than some of the other offerings of linking poetry within Another New Beginning. While each poem was written from remembered thoughts of past experiences, these three reflect a stir of memories accurately represented by a smile of sadness. Sad only because life is so fleeting and we don't become aware of its rapid passing until we look at it from a position of stillness.

With the sound turned off, every action has a new interpretation.  That thought just came to me and may not apply here, but I liked the feel of the words as they rolled around in my mind. Before you write  the final chapter of your life, before you ask for that special dessert, before you reach Cloud 99, take some time to turn the sound off in your hectic life and absorb the sight of a shimmering sky, the flavors of a favorite cake, conversation with a loved one, and turn your differences into a successful enterprise.

Enjoy the good life ahead, before you spend another holiday with no candles.

 

 

THE SUPERNATURAL and BEYOND WORDS Poems #42-43

42

The Supernatural 

Speaking in tongues

Searching for inspiration

Hands grasping,

Minds laid bare 

Enlightenment nearing fingertips

Yet always just beyond reach

The brass ring,

Unattainable 

The elusive transformation

From human to divine,

Is unfathomable, far

Beyond ability

 

When it becomes accepted belief that it is possible to alter God’s creation to reflect something of man’s own invention, thereby making man (woman) appear all powerful, then not only the molecules of thought are rearranged, but also the raw materials of the soul. This is not about cloning, Hitler’s regime, or IVF, but about the dangers inherent in my own inflated ego.

 

*****     *****

43

Beyond Words

 

 

There are words

I want to build on

And to use as titles

Of poems. Phrases with meaning: 

 

Rendering a Thought Visible

Or

Attempt at the Impossible

 

But my page is blank

Not barren, only empty.

As the leaves of autumn

Shrivel and blow away,

So has my inspiration.

 

Leaving behind only

Possibilities.

 

Inspired by the works of Belgian artist René Magritte and an essay by Marcel Paquet: The Enigma of Poetry.

 

 

NO KNACK poem #17 From Spark to Bursting Flame

17

No Knack

 

 

 

My Toastmasters speech

a dry run.

Tense, but eager

Using clear, concise tones.

Each word highlighting a point

on how the writing process

flows

from idea sparked,

to bursting flame,

generating a complete and published work. 

Then I swap the breezy artist’s cap

for one of entrepreneur –

and feel the constant drag

like wading through

a cooled pahoahoa lava flow, or

a river of mud.

 

I’ve stood on cooling lava flows when they were still quite warm to the touch. On the Big Island of Hawai‘i, Kilauea is known as the friendly volcano. It has been gently erupting since 1982. 

Walking on the surface of what once was over a thousand degrees of liquid fire, ancient material that flowed up from the center of the earth, is a bit eerie. Pahoahoa lava is smooth, rope-like in appearance. A’a flows are chunky, like oversized stucco. 

Once cooled, lava is rock hard. There is no “wading through” rock. That is my first impression of marketing, an impossible task required to sell a book. 

With my first novel, I had a degree of success. But after writing a second and third book, with research and editing, the publishing process seemed to overwhelm me. Marketing fell to the wayside while I returned to the fun part of being an author: writing. 

Easing back into the marketing arena again, I plan to replace the sense of constant drag with rhythmic rollercoaster action. With hard work, and luck, I look forward to building momentum. My goal is to continue moving forward, slowing at curves only long enough to give myself a breather before heading into the next run. 

If I can turn “no-knack” into no-lack of interested readers, even cooling lava flows won’t detour me from stepping into the overheated arena of marketing.

 

DAY DREAMS: A POEM

15

Day Dreams
 

 

Hand-knit mohair sweater

Still a treasure,

though an outgrown style. 

Sugar-coated jelly slices

Stuck between the teeth,

don’t smile. 

Oral fireworks of

Nehi Orange-Ade

on a first date. 

Teen memories bear weight,

Adults cannot carry,

and nothing can replace. 

Relive,

pretend,

embellish. 

You are but once sweet sixteen.

When I wrote this poem, my mind was on all things orange. As a pre-teen, I loved the color orange. Indulged, I had orange tweed carpeting and orange curtains in my bedroom. I liked orange food: orange Jell-O; orange push-ups; those orange jelly slices coated with sugar; orange sherbet ice cream. 

Mom knit an orange mohair sweater for me, which I treasured. I still have the sweater. It is in storage, though, so I can’t take a picture to show you. The collar is ribbed, about four inches wide. That sweater definitely gave me confidence! 

I also loved orange soda pop: first Nehi orange-ade, then Orange Crush. 

Memories of such simple pleasures can become overpowering. In my youth, I took so much for granted, never imagining the sacrifice of others or fully considering the love involved in fulfilling the wishes of children. As a result, these memories are best left for only infrequent visits. Slowly unwrapped and examined, then rewrapped with fresh white tissue paper and returned to storage. 

Over time and aging, the edges wear smooth. Thoughts develop a patina to shield one from the burden and weight of memory. Then, after the heavy burden of young perception is completely lifted, the mature mind can revisit and more fully appreciate what was. The soft feel of mohair is vivid; thoughts of sugary-sweet orange slices don’t hurt the teeth; fizzing sounds have fingers searching for a bottle of pop. 

We are but once sixteen. We can be forever young.

 

 

TOGETHER: Poem 10 of 70 from ANOTHER NEW BEGINNING

10
TOGETHER

LION DANCE IN WAIKIKI

 

If you’ve ever enjoyed a Chinese New Year’s lion dance, you will understand the necessity of working together to accomplish a difficult feat. The task of moving dragon-bodied lions along a parade route is difficult. As the animal’s head is raised and lowered in rapid succession, you wonder where the marcher gets the strength to remain in perpetual motion. After a period of time, the performers switch places. The energy expended is tremendous and such action cannot be safely sustained for long periods of time. 

Along with this coordination of efforts, each performer supporting the lion’s body works in sync with the others to produce an undulating motion. All this occurs while the pageant moves along its route, keeping the character dancing to elicit smiles. The red donation envelopes of good-luck help keep the energy level high. 

A writer’s goal is to offer readers this same level of entertainment. She develops characters that appeal to the reader’s senses and emotions, much like the colorful and expressive New Year’s lion. The writer works in solitude environment, venturing out only for hands-on research or a bit of fellow-human contact. She uses the muscles of her mind, exerting great energy to create setting and characters; tension and excitement; plot and climax. This collaborative effort is meant for the reader’s benefit.

 

Once the hard work leads to “society’s pleasure” the writer stands, mouth agape, waiting for the good-luck dollar!

 

Together

 

Writing is a solitary activity,

sitting alone for hours

at typewriter or computer

with a tablet or notepad.

Inside the author’s head

drumming up ideas

scenarios, settings

a plot slowly forms.

Characters dance and

story line develops.

Everything comes together

to build tension and

create meaning.

To tell an engaging tale

and elicit smiles, or tears.

 A solitary pursuit evolves

Becoming society’s pleasure.

 

 

BLESSED SLEEP: Looking For Solutions

Blessed Sleep

 

With eyelids squeezed tight

you count down from ten

then twenty, fifty, a hundred

to no avail.

 

Silence begs for shouting

to distract the thoughts

that won’t allow, grant, permit

blessed sleep.

 

Sirens peel strips of flesh

from your insomniac mind,

daring fingers and lips

to remain still.

 

************

 

 

While the previous week’s poem Acceptance turned surprisingly pleasant, this poem labeled Blessed Sleep takes its own unexpected, darker twist. I’m not sure where I dredged up the idea of insomnia other than from the contrary title. I don’t recall ever having extreme bouts of insomnia, certainly nothing comparable to the misery expressed in the heart of this poem. 

Having addressed the topic, however, I now have empathy for those who do suffer from such a malady. Not only does sleeplessness rob one of a full night’s Blessed Sleep. It also reaches out to undermine the following day’s pleasures that a person normally expects from life. 

This poem also describes an accelerating reaction, as a taunting voice issues a dare to find peace outside the pain of noisy chaos. This suggests that sleeplessness leads to growing agitation. Worries mount, seeping into the conscious mind. This likely assures that any hope of sleep is futile. 

Is there a solution that doesn’t require the use of unnatural substances? Not only for sleepless nights, but for endless days of questioning and searching for answers. An overactive imagination in the daylight hours, one that conjures up the possibility of trouble at every turn, is as afflicted by insomnia as the sleepless person of the night: both suffer from the restlessness of constant brain activity, whether negative or positive. 

Maybe the solution lies in the previous poem, Acceptance. Or it may lie ahead, in an as-yet unexamined word or phrase. 

Do you have the answer?

 

 

 

ACCEPTANCE: Benefits of Writing Poetry

Poems often start out headed in one direction and suddenly take an unexpected turn. This poem, Acceptance, surprised me because I thought its ending would reveal a difficulty requiring, well, acceptance! Instead, the words led to a more pleasant ending. Of course, the opposite is also possible, a lesson I learned as time went on and more poems took shape. 

One benefit of writing a renshi-form of poetry is knowing how the next poem will begin. By using the final words of the previous poem to entitle the next, the decision is already made. All that is required is to allow the words to flow, to release the thoughts buried deep inside of you without censure.

Maybe that is the Acceptance of this particular poem. Grant yourself a personal form of acceptance, one that will allow you to surrender to indulgence. The conditions listed at the start of the poem, stillness, inner focus, relaxed breathing, feel almost hypnotic in their release of control. Accept this, rather than attempting to maintain a strict discipline. 

The photograph I chose to accompany this poem, from my eclectic and rather amateurish collection, offers a sense of calm that complements the poem’s decelerating pace. I had no image in mind as I wrote the words. In fact, I had no preconceived ideas of the direction each poem would take or how they would tie together as a whole once completed. Had I set such a goal, the collaboration of words, motives, and images, my project would have no end. 

I choose completion over perfection every time.

 

Acceptance

 

Lack of motion

Limited sight

Slow breathing

 

Diminished thought

Absence of concern

Exhalation of relief

 

All this and more

As one accepts release

Falling gradually,

or fast

Time and again

With ever increasing pleasure

 

Into nightly blessed sleep.

***  ***  ***  ***  ***

 

 

 

AN EXPLOSION OF POSSIBILITY: A Thimbleful of Happiness

Being alive means having the opportunity to accomplish, whether the goal is to sleep through the night or to save the world from imminent destruction. Absence of possibility is the black hole of despair. Accomplishing your goal is secondary - unless the goal involves something comparable to landing an airplane or crawling back out of that darn volcano caldera! 

I need to know that my efforts can produce results. Imagine working toward a goal that is impossible to reach, or that you’ve convinced yourself is impossible to reach (think 5 pounds). That goal sinks under its own self-defeating prophesy. 

But accepting the promise of a “maybe” or a “chance” inherent in hopes and dreams, I am eager to move forward. I continue to strive toward improvement in my craft, my art. Throughout the length of this process, I also understand that the completion of a goal does not deliver unending happiness. Life is a balance, the tragedies giving fuller meaning to the explosions of joy, the success, and the endless possibilities.

 

 

 

An Explosion of Possibility 

Success is a thimbleful

of happiness

A goal met or drawn near 

 

Promises, layered for buffer

raise hopes

Granting permission to go on 

 

Wishes meant for more than

empty dreams

guide the way forward 

 

An explosion of maybe’s;

chances are; and possibilities;

give purpose to life.

***  ***  ***  ***  ***