“The Last Night of Hidetsugu”
I sleep until the dawn,
dream of a life lived
even as my time alive closes.
On the dawn I must take
my life to keep honour.
When I wake, I will see rays of sun
where now shines the moon.
My dreams will end at dawn
but then there will be nothing
left to dream, so no matter.
If there were another way
then it would have been.
There is nothing but every
last vestige of honour.
All my life has led to this, and now
my death must speak to my life.
May I write a poem
tomorrow on the contemplation
and determination of honour.
Let me take the blade wrapped
in rice-paper, and pierce
and cut from left to right.
Let agony whisper between teeth
as the warm wind through trees.
May I have strength, the stamina,
to make a second cut upwards.
Then may the sword
of The Officer of Death
take my head swiftly, singly.
May his sword afterwards
meet a good end.
Somewhere, the sun rises
to meet my last moment.
Illumination
A light never
stagnant, tests
awareness, appears
as the gem sparkle
of omnipotent eyes.
As if heralds
above city streets,
they fly, they glide.
They perch in tired
trees, their melodies
competing with sirens,
ambulance, fire, police.
At a call
I turn, see
on a curb-side
sewer grate,
a wren with
beckoning stare.
As soon as I
blink she departs
but, the
shine
of dark-crystal
eyes, remains
an after-image.
Digging Machines
Dusk sun behind them,
steel behemoths silhouette,
swiftly buckets swing.
Almost Angling
If I was adrift on open waters
I would put my feet over the side,
dangle over the deep darkness,
look up at an uncluttered sky
as the crimson sun descended.
I would drift around a reef to a shore
where others left messages in the sand,
white claw water obscuring with the ebb.
Beyond the water's reach I would lay
untouched unless breeze
off the water were to blow.
A skeletal castaway
with her long braids torn at
would watch my overdue slumber,
brush my cheeks with wet fronds,
wrap tenderly the hidden wounds.
I would rise to her refreshed,
embrace her in renewal
and our lips smother to a gasp,
while in that shared rejuvenation
she would take on anew
a more Rubenesque form.
We would share and speak,
weave into each other.
Indwelling
The kids put the dishes away
wrong, dirty with the clean again.
I tried to tell them but the in-laws
were all talking and there was no break
in the talk-talk-talk for me to be heard.
I kept my tone and volume even measured.
I couldn't raise my voice any louder anyway,
and so, I wasn't to be heard above it all.
It is something so strong I feel, so sure
deep within -- it hadn't all happened --
that our children were still young, still
nowhere near high school, I hadn't gone
back to college, and our house hadn't
been revealed for the money pit it was,
we weren't separated and sleeping alone.
How could the dream of all those things
seem so real if they hadn't happened, and
which have I woken to -- the dream
of the before, or is the before really now?
I am disoriented: I can't regain my bearings.
I walk into a restaurant, use one of their computers.
I find my location, and I figure my destination.
The cook stands behind me, his arms crossed.
I say thanks and get out of there quickly.
I walk down a strange street.
Some skateboard kids stare.
"Are you okay, mister," they ask.
"You look stuck between channels."
... Thanks. I'm trying to dial in.
I am in front of the building
I am supposed to be at
but it all looks so wrong.
A thick construction tarp hangs
down the front of the building,
muffling sounds of renovation.
The sounds stop, and a rope lifts
from one corner revealing a door
that the workers walk out of.
I have no flower in hand.
There are no petals to pull.
This is real... This is dream...
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