My short verses are far from
The true poetry, they also
Are beyond any genre either.
In fact, they can be likened
To an open gate, just a little crack,
To peep thru the daily completions;
They are like the mirror
Which needs not cleaning,
A red maple tree in the height
Of the golden autumn,
The hoarfrost at the onset
Of cold and the time
Of laying low under-worldly.
My short verses are the way
Of returning to revival,
To the springtime blossom,
To the nightingale's song
In the early July,
To the last falling leaf
Of a branchy ancient beech.
My short verses are the method
By which the winter drops
Its snow, so soft and furry,
And the easy scared swallows
Take shelter straight
Under the roofs of the men's houses,
And the noon's zenith
In its extreme hotness,
Which dreams to win
The evening coolness.
My short verses make things
Duly sensitive and quite active,
Sharing a good potion
Of the magic elixir of life,
By speaking of Enlightenment
In the parlance of silence,
Which is lying in the blanks
Between the monochrome lines.
Share
Print
Save
Follow
Ron