The Snow Last Night

And here's the morning report:

The snow last night
Even if only an inch
The roar this morning
The wind.
Back--the reality of winter
Sets in.
But all is well by fire
And by this window I travel
My book, big slippers
And wind.

Okay the Storm

It started again today, after two weeks. There's more inspiration in change. Too long the winter break of January. I'd rather, the snow. Spring and summer come in their own time. But, now . . .

Okay the Storm

High change of horizon
For storm on the north wind
Trees painting slate the sky
Quick strokes and ready.

Enough standing still
And waiting for white tops
Earth feet are showing
Ready with new sheets and snowing.

Still now, in commencement
Storm sifting through
Collect at the hedge bend
Waking the night.

We too with pantry
Or final trip providing
Open winter's volumes
And okay the storm.

Night Train

Night Train

A poet of occasion,
I sit and write and wish
To step into the unknown
And claim this mess I've made
The night before: The sweats and chills,
I ride the rails, or toss and take to the edge of ready.
Then lying still—I catch my breath.
Yes, what a mess.
Went on all night—
A dream so significant it begged to be written.
But it left on the morning train,
So it's hit 'n' miss, and then
I recognize a pattern:
The shattered thoughts of last night's puzzle
Stealing dream's direction.
Reflection in a camera lens, I see my eyes.
Thought it was southbound, but then I found
A cinematic can of reel emoting
Till I can't control the pressure cooker.
Book me on the night train.
Taxi down the track of Watertown.
What measures many forces take to reclaim the darkness
Where stark reality is more illusion.
The battlefield is rich with fluids
of ally and enemy alike.
I try to write,
But better left to wind what does not drift in script.
I'll catch another car some other night
If the gore of blood and guts
Does not keep me up.

Ardi Keim (written 1/12/06)

One Tree Complete

One tree, one bird at park’s edge.
The message reverberates
Replete in meaning
just out of thought.
Each leaf—a map of divine convergence.
Each song—a call to the silence of One.

Be conscious on all walks
through forest and city
travel the high path back home.

                       -a 1/04

Haiku Evolution

*
As I continue in my exploration/creation I stick to the formula of haiku (three lines: first - 5 syllables, second - 7, third - 5). Here are a couple more:

Morning with window
Vision of Soul's tomorrow
Sweet, the dream's report.

Or is it better reversing the first and third lines? I think so. Here:

Sweet, the dream's report
Vision of Soul's tomorrow
Morning with window.

Or switching the second line, end-for-end:

Sweet, the dream's report
Tomorrow of Soul's vision
Window this morning.

Too much fun playing. That was three versions of one. I like the last two better. Which one do you think better burns the moment's beauty into the eternity of Soul? That very question demands another:

Each experience
Sees the eternity of Soul
Touching it with now.

But, sometimes sticking with the formula (5, 7, 5) I feel a bit stayed--lacking the freedom that free verse allows at the moment of inspiration. So I write:

Haiku Inspired

Take the formula to freedom
And release the scent of Japanese tea service
On a trolley brake stop.
Hold on to your seats.
Wing-nut the rails.
Pull up hard and downhill fast
In San Francisco.

Am I free? Was I ever a prisoner? I guess we all are in some ways.

If by Prayer

Every prisoner knows the taste of freedom.
It becomes more sweet each day.
Hold what you know is true
For the blessing at the bend.
What is said in riddle
Sustains wonder
Like the Parable of Loaves and Fishes.

There is always new ground to cover. And right now in this part of Minnesota it is with six inches of snow. But the sun shines for the first time in most of a week. Have a good journey. Mush!, huskies.

Winter Haiku

-~-

Pause one December
Between the last two snow storms
Three red birds sunning.

-~-

Sun touches snow flake
Leaves skate by wind on sidewalk
Open the shutters.

-~-

Still. Soft and soaring
To the play of yesterday
Dreams on white pillow.

-~-

Yesterday’s sharp axe
This radiant glow crackling
And your love makes home.

-~-

More Haiku -- if you don't mind

(FYI: hai-ku. Three lines -- five syllables, seven, and five.)

I guess I started writing poetry in earnest when I bought my first typewriter in 1968. I still have it, but haven't used it in years. At that time I wrote a little ditty on how typewriters inspire. Who knows where that first poem is? Anyway, here is the current haiku version of it:

Inspired

Poet's voice now freed
Plat, plat, plat -- like big rain drops
Typewriter inspired.

In my web research yesterday I came upon some cat haiku. Here are my offerings:

Contemplation

Crawl onto my lap
Purring metronome, the tail
Contemplation cat.

Then, I just couldn't help myself:

Cat Haiku

Qualities of fluff
Antics at the end of tail
Breathe, Cat, in haiku.

Too often I write poetry about poetry. Is that cheating? Here's another:

Haiku Haiku

Meter and rhyming
Trying to make it be true
This verse in haiku.

Okay, that's enough for now. I'm sure there will be more.

Oregon New Year

My blogging poet vacation post below reminded me of haiku, but then I had not the time to adjust. How's this? ...

Enjoying the rain

All wet, yet breathing in Portland

Happy New Years Eve!

The Great Hall

I walked in Paris one day. Entered a moment of light. Behold…

In the great hall with benches
light gathers with color.
Footsteps and voices,
excitement and muse…
I sit and wait
in the great hall.

Hours of day—
dawn’s turning through eve,
keys to the gate,
they leave the great hall.
The muse and I still wait
with your smile,
Mona Lisa.

                       --ak 6/10/01

Blogging Poet Goes on Vacation

Enjoying the rain in Oregon.
Not flooded out yet.
Flying home soon.
Happy New Year.
--Ardi

Snow Song

Sometimes you know it's a good day — before it even begins.

Awaken to the silence of a snow song
gentle hush on the wind still speaking
of inches in drift and horizontal painting.

White with winter
and dreams on thunder hill.
Still go there in the back seat of child sleep.
Sledding to the rumble.
And I haven't even looked out the window.

Sun still sleeps in clouds of inspiration.
I'll don my smock and easel.
Paint in muted shades for the cardinal
on pine bough yet to light.
Water color before its frost blooms to crystal.
And I haven't even opened my eyes.

Face of Ages

An artist friend works in wood and steel. His sculptures are more than decorative. They take me into rich worlds of cultures past. Like being introduced to new friends.

Face of ages
wrought in steel
speak to me of where you've been.
What's the vision in your mind?
The fire in your eyes?

I've seen the work of many hands,
but yours beyond all earthly time
is wrought in steel to feel new joy.

Face of ages wrought in steel
speak to me of glee.

spring tree

Out of season? Maybe. But the previous poem, Even Snowmen Cheer, did spring from this one yesterday morning.

spring tree bounce
and dance from season to season
your roots do not hold you
to any law but love

I love trees in all seasons. They move in wondrous ways. Move me to poetic inspiration (see also Tree Climbing), and all who live—to breath.
We don't live without 'em.
Climb aboard.

Even Snowmen Cheer

Today's gifts measure yesterday's gratitude. I love the seasons of this planet. To me they are four ways of God's love.

April's bounce by coiled step to crystal pool,
collected clear and running cool
these mountain spirits
freed in each day's thaw.
Quenching thirst of months to come.

September trees release their leaves
to join the nuts and seeds
already down.
Autumn's garden harvest
collect in baskets grateful hold
the heart of love's projection.
We are protected now.

Many meanings—Spring and Fall
light the solid state of Winter
and Summer's sweet recall
of heat and flavor—
year's end, midyear.
Even snowmen cheer.

Old Photo Faces

What is in a box of old photos--other peoples photos? Behind the smiles and the poses are a thousand hidden words.

Old Photo Faces   

Shoebox or album. Reach for the past. Open a cover to the scent of a pungent journey, rich in the plot of lost years. How long was the story held captive by old photo-faces, that have smiled since boyhood, or the last child of Rose? 

Bound in a book, or this box-- what sighs now released in the turning, thumb-printing? Plow through glossy dreams in cream color, scallop borders, satin black and white. Standing too long in this pose-- rest and let a frown refresh you. 

Sleep in your tomorrows' other blessings. Don't hide the lines caught in a flash and held now decades for later that night, or next morning's light. Kodak never said it this way-- yet never told a lie. 

Looking through a book of years, a box of gray and black and white, what color the memories of time? And other cousins calling? Grampa. Never mind the missing years, retelling stories new-- other people's stories from the dust of this collection over-exposed and under-protected. And never seen till now.        

 

   ak 3/29/01 (rev. 4/1/01)

Snowman

Silent song
Sound of light
On ether stage
This starlit night.

Then, gentle down.
Dance. Repose.
Rest in flight,
One freely chose.

Blanket earth
For morning drift,
And shape the spheres
Light spirits lift.

Silent song
In a starlit plan—
A spirit form—
This snowman.


           ak ~1993 winter (rev. 2/28/01)

Dream Lion

Life is new through young eyes
hard work at play by day
in battle and truce with the lion,
that ends under cover of bed
time now to dream a new answer
while the question still forms in my head
lion, are you tame? are you wild?
take up the sword of tomorrow
all through the eyes of a child.

ak 11/15/03

Growing Rose

What love is it that chooses heart’s direction?
Talent never learned this life
But lived like bees to honeysuckle’s center
To one an awkward duty
Another makes it dance.

Are we not followed on the road to choose
By choices other than our own?
Our map in math or science knows
Growing rose and radish
An easy work of art.

Start to feel connection with life and tools of craft
In school what luck would have the leaders
Follow heart and soul?
There is more than light and scent
To growing rose.

           1/15/04 (rev. 12/3/05)

Behind the Willows

Before the sunset was the quality of sky
behind the willows
Winter blue and white and gray
Maybe it’ll snow to soften the fall of skater's elbow.
And wind to drift in -- full length.
Blessed the moments of quarter before the sunset.
Every minute a new hue of love.
Silver lining. Steel clouds. Liquid gold.
Tropical fruit of looming cumulus.
And distant mountain blues—
All turning day to night
In strips of light behind the willows
And western striping of the sky.
Best of season’s blessings all winter
Never really happened yet.
Sunset tonight behind the willows.
As I wait. What’s next?
Maybe it will snow.

ak 1/03

Rock Painter

Saw her work and called her. She paints the portraits of pets on river stone.

Face-painting rocks.
A call on the phone.
Puppy licks. Kitty light.
Giving life to stone.
           Rock painter’s hand of God
           never works alone.
           Color brush. Lighting smiles.
           Giving life to stone.

                      ak 6/5/02