In men’s souls

Mysterious, indeed
why voids
walnut-shaped
appear in men’s souls
though their bodies still thrive;
the specter of Death
stays stoutly
beyond the veil

shuffling through
days made
months made
years, where joy
and sorrow both flow
like red and white
during an early autumn
vineyard wedding

vacuities remains
and only the most honest
of men know
from whence they came.

Tanka 02

With a single seed
virgin tendris give way to
a trunk grown stout, then
turned gnarled and stooped with wisdom
squinting at its younger kin

If you read all the poetry posted on this blog, you’ll notice a running theme- the interplay of nature and time. Though I also write verse that doubles as social commentary, I find those bits can feel a bit stilted and preachy.

Birthing, thriving, dying, gone

The tree by the train tracks;
Or the train tracks by the tree?;
Before man bound steam;
Into its iron horses, galloping;
Valiant;
Centuries of standing silent;
Amongst the leaves;
Birthing, thriving, dying, gone;
Its bristles raking the air-;
Once fierce and thrashing, then;
Placid, serene, with jays soaring;
So high as to leave the realm behind;

Wet, the bark is soft, deceptive;
For the strength that lies inside;
One day
the storm shall wrench its;
Wise and ancient roots out;
Or the selfish beings;
So small and short-lived;
Will come with gleaming axes;

What remains- a tapestry of triumph;
The humble stump,
speaking;
Of a past now forgotten;