Tanka, Zen and Senryu
Tanka
So they hung Saddam
The brutal, old dictator
But as they gloated
He faced the hangman bravely
That will be remembered.
Zen
with
a vicious
act.
2006
ended
as it
began
Senryu
Behind democracy.
Lurks pitiless high finance.
Your vote is a joke.
Happy New Year
a plea for clemency
A Plea for Clemency
Rebecca Lunch, the brave soldier, broke a leg in
her president’s war, the enemy brought her to
hospital where she was looked after till her army
came, with blazing guns, and picked her up; no,
she hadn’t been raped or beaten, the cant machine
and compliant press, could only hint at unspoken
cruelty had befallen her, they made her a heroine
anyway, picture in the paper, and after that they
let her go home to mum and dad. For this, I think,
Saddam Hussein should be given a pardon, he
isn’t a common criminal, but a big one like Bush
and Blair who will end up as elder statesmen,
(Blair a Lord) admired by us all, if not by the Iraqi
people whose country they destroyed
Christmas, 1943
First, trained a farmer in
The Great Depression,
He always hated Christmas,
No matter the
Endless cups of
Amnesiac cheer
A commercialized
Holiday offered.
And secondly why?
On Christmas Eve 1943,
a teenage sailor,
residue of hay bales still clinging to his ears,
dreaming of thistles and harvests,
horse-powered ploughing
in the middle of the South Pacific,
was still seasick when he
switched duties with his
best friend,
But on Christmas Day 1943
a teenage sailor met
a never-ending war
On Christmas Day 1943,
a teenager who rode
ponies to school
watched 108 of his comrades
kick and scream prematurely into
dark, wet un-holidayed sepulchers–
wailing armless torsos,
legless arm-flailing torsos,
always screaming, “don’t leave me!”;
swam instinctively against
the violent sucking black
hole
On Christmas Day 1943
War’s cruel gift exchange.
God’s inscrutable will.
The year without a Santa Claus
On Christmas Day, 1943
a pompous and derelict Captain
laughed at the alarms of his
subordinates–
Murder–
On Christmas Day, 1943,
surviving men lined up their shoes on deck,
insanely perfect, as their drills
had promised,
and leapt to their deaths
On Christmas Day,
a teenaged Veteran, father, husband
gives painful gifts to his wife
and his children;
refuses all presents,
refuses the waste,
refuses the universe,
and Memory,
all in vain, in vain
On Christmas Day, 1943
a teenage boy, a husband, a father
a Veteran,
was saved by a passing ship,
And lost his life,
On Christmas Day, 1943.
Gobsmacked
Gobsmacked
The small trout in the creek stood still
looking at me, a fearless gaze it had;
as I made a face it flicked its tail, stuck
my tongue out, another flick.
A dream had come true I was having
a conversation with a fish, recited an
epic poem: “Terje Viken” by Henrik
Ibsen, its tail flicked no ends.
Bubbles to surface, it spoke to me, but
a big shadow came behind it, too late;
the tiny fish was eaten by a big one that
didn’t have the gift of speech
Reflections on a Morning Run
I saw the sun rise this morning
It reminded me of a California sunset
I was on the other side
a continent away greeting it tomorrow.
The golden pink reflection
Across the Andaman Sea a road
Leading me home.
I drew in the Karon beach sand
be indispensable and thought
about place. Years before the coup,
the tsunami, marriage
and fatherhood, before responsibility
I was young and wanted what
I didn’t know-security and love.
a rainy afternoon in cuba
A Rainy Afternoon
In a corner in the kitchen, which I share with
a rubber plant, I sit in my comfy chair and
survey my possession of pots and copper pans,
think of Cuban cigar and hardening of arteries,
“Only two glasses of wine a day” the doc said,
he didn’t mention sex, perhaps he would like to
know that our Saturday love, is a frugal affair,
bath, clean finger nails and, cute, little towels
under pillows; says she used to be in real estate.
Last time I was in Cuba cigars cost more than
abused whores thronging Havana’s streets, till
Fidel Castro came and put an end this disgrace,
mongers fled to Florida where they ghoulishly
sit and wait for the old man to die.
Low Tide
the so-called experts
have no explanation
of how it is that the team
went 6-6 this year
after having won 10 last season.
after all,
they didn’t lose any starters
they didn’t play a tough schedule
and they sure didn’t have many injuries.
but these experts,
well …
they forgot to ask me.
i could’ve told them
how they were her favorites,
how we’d watch them together,
and then
how she left me in April.
tough luck, baby,
you shoulda stuck with me;
your boys would be in the damn Rose Bowl.
freedom
Freedom
Dizzily happy, the two escaped canary bird,
sitting lackadaisical on an olive twig, bright
as lemons, picking insects from its branches.
enjoying the inner glow independence gives,
when a hawk swooped grabbed one of them.
The other one flew back to find the safety
of its cage, but the window was closed, if
sat on the ledge thrilling the sweetest tones
and gladdened the heart of neighbours and
killer cats alike, till the hawk returned
