182/365 - 186/365

Stumbling with the third section of latest poem. Even when walking around the pond today, I circled at least two or three times before a haiku concept arrived. Usually the verse composes itself immediately, with the formulated pace of my walk

But the poem, the poem “Learning Spanish” wanders into a memory without a sense of personality—the persona seems dry, cardboard cutout—I suppose the lady with the pushcart needs a voice. A phrase or a glance. Personify an abstraction of reality. Can she become Memory itself? Or Language?

Crescent moon shifting—
a rising epiphany—
listens intently.

Another day lies
without clear inspirations.
No new fresh-faced muse.

Interrupted walk
caught in unexpected rain.
Memories falling.

Discovered an Irish sculptor, Fidelma Massey, (http://www.irishsculpture.com/) who creates wonderful work, images unique and eccentric, based off a mythic energy and dream logic in a variety of forms and symbolic archetypes. I envy the mannerism of her figures—they arch and bend, blur between a theatre masque procession and a tableau depicting ancient gods and goddesses—they curve within themselves, half human, half animal.

Halfway round the pond.
In the distance faint music:
a boy with a flute.

Sunlight curves within
the base of blue ceramics
coiling tight circles.

The night splits open
spilling out blue black voices
from unseen grackles.


  1. Today.I take this one as best

    Interrupted walk
    caught in unexpected rain.
    Memories falling.

    I think to hide who stopped walking for this haiku to give free imaginaly.


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