Thank you to Freya Pickard of Pure Haiku for publishing one of my Haiku in the new issue.  

I'd putting all 5 of the entries in this post.

chasing life’s tempos

the clock sends us messages

tells us we tick old.

corona shining

colorful mystique flows forth

many halos burst

dancing and singing

a heart lit so very bright

the flame of love glows

bending universe

an elegant bow is birthed

each world’s curve arches

drifting purple globes

orbs and spheres carrying life

all worlds look for peace

 

 

I am very pleased to have a new set of poems translated by the esteemed Vatsala Radhakeesoon. This one is translated into Mauritian Kreol.

Liar

Naked now you'll be,

stripped of all truthfulness,

as Ananias exposed in elder days was.

Protection now most slight.

Then, gambling with veracity.

Once to fool those who knew no better.

Following, the first deception revealed,

unraveling subsequent falsehoods.

Line them up, parade them,

display them as your inventions.

They sit apparent, like squatters,

long after being ordered out.

No cover, no cover,

stark they stay,

stark you stay.

All eyes now focus

on your every misdemeanor of word.

Manter



Aster, to pou touni,


Pou tir tou to verite,


kouma Ananias ti expoze dan so vie zour.


Proteksion bien tigit.


Apre zwe avek verite.


Enn fwa pou anbet bann seki konn plis.


Swivan premie desepsyon ki finn admet,


devwal ankor lezot mansonz.


Met zot dan lake, fer zot mars kouma dan parad,


Montre ki to bann linvansion sa.


Zot assize remarkab, kouma bann squatters,


mem apre ki finn donn zot lord ale.


Pa kouver, pa kouver,


Zot rest rizid,


To res rizid.


Tou lizie aster brake


lor sak fo pa parol.

I am very pleased to have a new set of poems translated by the esteemed Vatsala Radhakeesoon. This one is translated into Mauritian Kreol.

Grave

There's something wrong with your grave.

There’s not the wrong kind of grass covering you,

nor an incorrect variety of flowers growing atop.

The tombstone looks fine:

The symbols etched into the granite

are perfectly formed,

The dates are right.

Your name is spelled accurately.

The shady tree above

is grandly leafed,

and suits its purpose.

Yet, there is something incorrect.

This grave is wrong,

for the simple reason

that you don't belong here.

Tom 



Ena kiksoz de mal avek to tom.


Pena move zerb ki kouver twa,


Ni bann fler ki fer dezord lao,


Tom-la paret bien:


Bann sinbol grave an granit


zot bien forme.



Bann dat bon.


To nom finn bien ekrir.


Pie lao ki donn lonbraz


li plin ar fey,


ek fer so travay bien.


Me, malgre sa ena touzour enn kiksoz ki pa bon.


Sa tom- la li pa bon,


Pou enn sel rezon


parski li pa to plas sa.

I am very pleased to have a new set of poems translated by the esteemed Vatsala Radhakeesoon. This one is translated into French.

Ensorcelled Within the Moonlit Eyes of P’aqo

Her silly putty face worn,

the dowager’s palm was greased

as the lightning strikes the beast.

Rivulets of blood seep from sacred dogs.

The starry-eyed loon,

the wild-eyed child

running through the streets,

stopping the second before those dogs pounce.

Smelling the tears, she in the childhood tent

feels the old hocus-pocus,

from outside, the hiss and blast of truth.

But the shaman has not lost his grip,

much quieter next time,

the fight much less painful.

Just tell the truth.

Give no hypnotic promises,

no serpentine ballet

woven between real and false.

She thinks, she feels,

he promises,

I’ll create the moon tonight

he does, he does.

Ensorcelés par les yeux lumineux de P’ago



Son visage ridicule, mastiqué, épuisé,


la paume de la douairière était grasse


quand la foudre frappa la bête.


Des ruisseaux de sang coulant des chiens sacrés.

La folle aux yeux étoilés,


L’enfant aux regards égarés


courant dans les rues,


s’enfuyant avant que ces chiens ne l’attaquent .



Flairant les larmes dans sa tente d’enfance elle


ressent la vieille formule magique,


de l’extérieur, le sifflement et le souffle de la vérité.



Mais rien ne s’échappe au shaman ,


plus calme la prochaine fois,


la lutte moins douloureuse.



Dites seulement la vérité.


Ne faites pas des promesses hypnotiques ,


Pas de danse du serpent
se

mêlant du réel et d’illusion.



Elle pense, elle ressent,


Il promet,


Je créerai la lune ce soir


il le fait , il le fait.

I am very pleased to have a new set of poems translated by the esteemed Vatsala Radhakeesoon. This one is translated into French.

The Value of Shadows

The rain lay soggy upon

the waterlogged branches of limp, bowed trees.

Appearing as the hunched and angled, stooped

backs of many old men walking here.

I caught a shape in the mist that

reminded me of you, or

perhaps I was just imagining

you and your soldiers returning

to the spot you had fought so hard to hold.

As the sun peeked through,

I discovered these were only trees,

although I remember it was here,

sixty years ago,

that your battalion won the day.

L’importance des ombres



La pluie laisse détrempé


les branches d’arbres fragiles ,courbées


s’apparaissant comme des bossus et s’inclinant , tout penchant,


les dos des vieux hommes qui y marchaient.



J’aperçus une silhouette dans la brume qui


me rappela de toi, ou


peut être que j’imaginais


toi et tes soldats revenant


au lieu où vous vous êtes battus de tout votre cœur.



Quand le soleil jeta un coup d’œil,


Je constatais que ce n’était que des arbres,


même si je me souviens que c’était ici,


il y a soixante ans ,


ta bataille remporta la victoire.

 Thank you to translator Vatsala Radhakeesoon of Mauritius for publishing 5 of my poems. Here they are below:

A Train to Somewhere

I remember my grandparent’s enclosed porch,

their Boston Terriers nipping at my heels

as I entered the yard.

I enjoyed the reminiscences,

repeated at each visit.

I reveled in the laughter that ensued

after each anecdote about my childhood was concluded.

The story I remember most today

is the one about my lone field trip,

at the age of three,

to the neighborhood railroad tracks.

Little me, found by frantic people

and returned home safely.

In later years, my grandmother,

Alzheimer ridden,

was found wandering

those same railroad tracks

by equally frantic people.

I’ve wondered since

if we were looking for the same thing.

Un train pour aller quelque part

Je me souviens de la terrasse clôturée de mes grands- parents,


leur Boston terriers me mordant les talons


dès que j’entrais dans la cour.



Je me réjouis de ces souvenirs ,


qui se reproduisaient à chaque visite .


Je m’amusais en me perdant dans le rire qui s’ensuivait


après chaque anecdote de mon enfance.



L’incident qui reste gravé dans ma mémoire


est celui de ma balade en solitude dans les champs ,


à l’âge de trois ans,


traversant les voies ferrées du quartier.


Toute petite, je fus retrouvée par des gens affolés


et rentrée chez moi saint et sauf.



Dans les années suivantes, ma grand-mère ,


souffrant d’Alzheimer ,


fut retrouvée errant


parmi les mêmes chemins de fer


par les gens tout à fait affolés .

Depuis, je me demande 


si on avait le même but.

 Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing this piece.

https://www.arielchart.com/2022/01/lines-people-use.html?showComment=1641947905857#c7166588220743652793

Lines People Use

 

They dip their pens in vitriol,

and let colors seep from the truth,

behind gray,

and past little white lies. 

“Did you know that …..”

 

It’s harder to remember yesterday’s stories as told by mouths. 

They stand,

careless with the large,

careless with the small,

doing their consistent worst.

“Here’s what I heard!”

 

Then, so soon comes the twilight,

bringing dark nights of trouble.

What splendor hangs in the air,

above where the wounded fell, 

whose peace was robbed by those 

who cause dark clouds and sorrow.

“It’s his/her own fault!”

 

Along trails of tales,

where secrets,

real or phony,

and the blood of others is spilled.

“Somebody said…..”

 

Beyond compass of all thought, 

each link in the chain, 

entrusted without merit,

using the latest tell,

“If it’s true!”

 

Like a spreading maple,

let it grow, let it grow.

 

Announcers of fakery,

Broadcasting with technology,

spuriously praised 

for each tapped key on the board.

“You didn’t hear this from me, but……”

 Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing my poem.

https://www.arielchart.com/2022/01/the-priest-king.html

The Priest King

  

The awaiting hopefuls gather, 

their hastiest converging necessary.

They speak in hushed and conciliatory tones.

 

Newly selected,

this trusty replacement,

will be born of white smoke,

will choose a protective moniker,

make promises for a sure shirking from sin.

 

Censers sway to honor this most recent 

broker of treaties, and keeper of the faithful.

The gray at his temples on the side of his head

reminds him he must keep the edifice temple clean.

 

The faithless say that much written 

within past communiques will become obsolete.

The faithless say one hand cannot save all,

but the priest king reminds us

that civility buys hope,

and, for centuries, there has been one 

who can do the saving.