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An ant on my hand
Life or death
My choice
I choose to do nothing__
A haiku and then not a haiku
To often we feel obliged to act
I choose to do nothing___
When the best course of action is inaction
I blow the ant away__
Of course I have upgraded Sloth from the Seven Deadly Sins to a virtue in revenge for astronomers having downgraded Pluto from planet status. I rejoice in time drifting to and fro like a gentle eddy of a shallow tide without a ripple in the cosmos. Even when I had been beset by impending death I never strayed from doing nothing other than succumb to blissfull brain fogs. I had no other choice, until a NYU nurse offered me a laxative dispelling the ammonia in my brain. Simple as that the fog lifted in weeks. Still at death's door, but aware of how far and how close was time. I promised myself to remain true to my devout belief in godlessness and I have kept my word.
Time never moves faster when you cease caring for its passage.
broad channel bridge
I no more look in the mirror
Only my naked silhouette at dusk___
underneath the borad chnnel bridge looking for horsecrabs. I saw two.
Haiku by Matsuo Bashō "Quietly, quietly, / yellow mountain roses fall – / sound of the rapids
A haiku traditionally consists on sixteen syllables. Three lines of five / seven / four syllables according to Japanese poetry.
I have been satisfied with a contrary configuration without the guidance of Zen calligraphy. The nuns at St. Mary's of the Hills had been hard pressed to instill in their grammar school students the importance of legible pensmanship ie the Palmer cursor method. I still some of the grace from their instruction, which had been backed by a ruler to the back of the hand for any uncrossed ts and undotted is.
I shall practice my handwriting on clean white sheets of paper in honor of Sister Mary Osmond. My ancient Egyption teacher from 6th Grade. 1964. Sixty years ago. my hand remains true, although originally I had been left-handed. A sign of the Devil. Sister Mother Superior beat the devil out of me. Not completely. I still deal cards left-handed.
A mirror
An image
My Image
Not me
Just how
A Mirror sees me
Moi
4/2024
Brevity
Three syllables
One word
Lasting
An eternity
Poetry
On the subway
To avoid
limbo
On the phone
New England forest in the snow. White going gray. The light going white.
Foto by Aleta Wolfe
Pale sky, golden moon, purple horizon, blue waves and a road at dusk
17 on = a haiku.
I cheated with the photo, however there is no greater expression than what we see when we cease to not see.
This is a real haiku.
Basho's OLD POND
17th Century
at the age old pond a frog leaps into water a deep resonance
This haiku is a venerated Japanese classic according to my backup memory WIKIPEDIA.
I'm partial to his 1685 offering
another year is gone a traveler's shade on my head, straw sandals at my feet
The Beauty of Pure Math.
