Sketchbook  John Daleiden, US

 

 

Sijo A Grandmother’s Lament Do not weep beautiful child, your mother sleeps without her pain. Be content she loved you well— she gave you life and memories. In your mind is a golden ark, treasury of precious thoughts.

 

Sijo An Epiphany of Longing When will it come to a halt, this endless icy pallet? The distant horizon each day, blurs with the same slate-cold clouds. Will you ever return home to bake salmon and serve hot tea? The ground hog emerged in sun— his long shadow a harbinger. I wait patiently for April when tulips boldly brush colors. How long has your black hair grown since departure on New Years? Your cat curls on the bed foot, each night her meow, plaintive. Listen outside your window, hear the soundless motion of stars! Even the garden chimes ring out Longing to compete with your laugh. Like Penelope you weave life into our flawed tapestry; our web of days, a panoplay of gossamer and dreams, a mystical olive branch polished, textured and elegant.

 

Tanka I write these words to discover my path through the forest— shadows and colors delay my journey to your gate.     Moon Eyes dreaming in cold January moonlight my sleeping eyes see your distant face longs for slumber too     Awakening From Deep Sleep just before dawn  in the quiet shadows  I wake beside you— my heart explodes like the sound of shattering glass     my secret love, beware the strumpets' tongues: the honeybee stings— the bite of the viper is deadly venom     in your embrace— safe tonight, your breasts clasped tight, in our sanctuary we whisper and kiss away their mumbled jealousies     Through The Veil . . at the funeral mass the eulogies extol my life’s virtues each one sings as the dirt seals my final resting place.

 

Sestina An End Without End What's the difference? Either now or later.  It's all the same; in the end we all die and there's no changing that eternal fate. From dust to dust is what the Good Book says. So! To every thing there is a season and I have patience to endure that end with meditating that all life must end. My last breath must come sooner or later. It's certain death comes in its own season— A time to be born, and a time to die— as I cross my last river, Charon says, "It's certain there's no escaping this fate!" I know that men cannot outlive their fate; history must run its course, have an end when it will end. It's useless when man says, "I beg your pardon Lord, I'll go later— for you see now—I'm not ready to die just yet. Oh, Sir, please! Just one more season!" When ripe fruit falls from trees, it's sure season's course has rounded earth's corners; lord, my fate is like some old brontosaurus who dies when one giant galactic event ends the daily round of ancient life later than sooner, as the antique saying says. I ruminate—the eye of my mind says: "blink not—the face of the final season hears with deaf ears those pleas for a later departure. The mind's lips cannot mute fate— for bloody life will end when life will end. One event happens to us all—we die!" To be a man is to have lived and died. Is there now among us a man who says, "the rivers have filled all the seas. The end of life is at hand. Behold! Life's season, is scratching its doggy behind like fate on Eden's last apple tree. Don't be late." Later, I'll return—a gnat, or rose. I'll die. "Fate is eternal," some witless sage says: "Seasons turn endlessly—begin and end . . ."

 

Sonnet The Lover's Cage When minds by love's unreasoned wound are bound no word nor act unbinds the pledge; no cleft dissolves the words each lover vowed as left or right from arms embracing cage they found their separate lives had turned: their barred compound of spoken word was forged while Plato slept in dreams of 'cratic thought; no tears they wept can melt love, though each bar be cast to ground: the beggars, fools and clowns may trade their jewels, the thieves invent their bogus wares to sell in streets, but lovers choose their mold and tell their simple tale by simple smiles and childhood rules: the courts of love receive each pledge and cast the ingot bars of love where lovers rest.     Pinnacle I want to laugh with you until the world is clothed in blackness and stars, in moonlight all silvered with autumn dew, and delight in your smile as radiant as pearls. I want to run with you, my hand in yours, until we reach the meadow of desire where love will blaze brighter than a fire filled field of bold white and yellow flowers. Together we will climb the rocky path, mounting boulders and fording icy streams clamoring in rarified air, extremes of dizzy heights where we will gasp for breath— And in our dotage, our life nearly spent,  this moment captured in remembrance.     That Which Endures There is no distance so great our love will  languish when necessary absence parts us to our separate duties, for our hearts are twin chambers, like beacons on a hill guiding by example, others who watch from a distance, or those who close at hand observe and doubt—not one can understand why we, inseparable, through our life walk. On a distant day did we not pledge troth? 'till death do we part, in sickness or health— together our mutual trust is great wealth more valuable than ancient golden cloth;  our spirits wedded in mutual pledges endure time, fame, and all love's hard edges.

 

Cinquain The Sound of Water Splashing "Old pond... a frog leaps in water's sound".*  Will her kiss awake a sleeping prince or old Basho? *furuike ja kawazu tobikomu mizu no oto *Translated by William J. Higginson in The Haiku Handbook (9).     The Call Tin cup in hand he sings Christmas songs for supper— in cold night air the Angelus summons.

 

Haiku lovers toe to toe beneath the pale moon nightingales sing     first snow the great horned owl hunts in pale moon light

 

Ekphrastic Lanterne The Aristocrat Skater Trial Lawyer cold, he tugs his great coat tight across his chest; in deep thought, his face scowels— the trial outcome looms! Sir William Grant (1752–1832)

The Skater, 1782, a     portrait of William Grant    by Gilbert Stuart.

 

Mirror Lanterne Like A Lullaby soft, your touch on my brow— sweet voice singing songs warm, so comforting in the night, soothing sounds

 

In The Night light spills out from this verse— a bright central glow John Daleiden, US

 

Mirror Lanterne A Sorceress Bright beacons in dark skies— your innocent eyes see through deception, piercing heart's soulful lies.

 

Lanterne Sequence The Forecast . . . fall bursts out colliding with summer sun— rain     Elemental sky orange fading black maelstrom of trees wind

 

Haiku and Fibonnaci Sequence Welcome . . . old friends meet under the morning sky sun and moon the art of words knows no bounds— each poem like a soul, etched in memory, a painting— color, shape, line, and form on pages preserved for the eyes of future ages. a rose bouquet with delicate scent hello, old friend     Fibonacci Sequence Constancy Is Change my thoughts expand— like building giant pyramids in the desert sands— foundations firmly set out of sight below the shifting granular rock waves— my poem as certain as the moon cycle, no two nights quite the same, yet constant, waxing and waning, constantly changing remaining the same yet not the same…

 

 

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