Who Can Think of Spring?

I often think about the still-born spring, three years ago, when it seemed like nothing would ever grow again—not even in our woods. The woods were lost girl met lost girl, years and years ago. We decided that it was safest to believe in magic to find the way through. We lifted moss-colored words from the banks of our creek to line our path and tucked stories into trees. 

I wonder if the trees notice you are gone, when I go to pick up scraps of memories caught in the brambles by the creek. I wonder what the creek thinks when I try to weave those scraps into something recognizable, something that makes sense. Spring green should not be the color of grief, but even now, in the spaces where growth is undeniable, spring always arrives late for me. 

 

who can think of spring
while grieving the one flower
that will not grow back

Photo by Ed Leszczynskl on Unsplash

Song choice: Gavi's Song by Lindsey Stirling

Liner notes for this Groove: This poem is linked to Poets and Storyteller United's Friday Writings Prompt, In Memoriam.

That Sportsball Life

I couldn't hear the bounce of ball on blacktop over the susurration of pages turning under my hands when I was young. Tying elation and depression to the ferocious waltz between strangers held no appeal. It was only when I felt the freedom of venting emotions in a well timed kick that I began to understand.

My unexpressed rage
finds solace in strengthened limbs
dripping sweat, not tears. 


Liner Notes for This Groove: 

My dad did a terrific job suppressing laughter when I told him I voluntarily participate in sport-like activities every week with my co-workers. That ever athletic man spent a lot of time trying to encourage me to enjoy a physical activity beyond walking back and forth to the library with a ginormous backpack of books. I'm just as surprised as he is by how much I look forward to what I call "sportsball time" at work.

There are weeks I'm especially grateful for sportsball time. This week was one of them. There was a whole lot going on that, let's just say, left me feeling mightily irked. It wasn't enough to make me cry (and I'm certainly not against a good cry either - I find those to be extremely cathartic), but I had some pretty strong feels that were going to be unproductive to vent any other way than on the sportsball field.

I actually played my best game this week - 2 goals, 2 assisted goals. I credited it to brewing chai tea in coffee that morning (caffeine is a hell of a drug, for me at least - ask my college roommate). But there was just something cleansing about playing hard, even if my team didn't win in the end (I mean... that wasn't realistic. The gentleman who runs the class and the lady who is super hard core about fitness were on the opposing team. It was like going up against the Avengers).

I'll never be fabulous at sports, but I'm having fun playing. Heck, I even have a favorite sports team - the Hanshin Tigers from Japan. They are from Osaka, which is known to be a foodie haven. That seems to be as good a reason as anything else to support a team. Go Tigers!

Mascot for the Hanshin Tigers

This poem is linked to Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads Weekend Mini-Challenge: Mustn't Be Fancy and Poets United, Poetry Pantry 436.


Song Choice: Rokko Oroshi (the fight song for the Hanshin Tigers baseball team out of Osaka Japan) by Snuff

A Drop of Jasmine

I only need a drop of jasmine to weave into the corkscrew vines of my garden. It is already dew-kissed knowing you will slip in just as night begins to lap up the sky as it explodes into stars.  

My tongue led along

constellations of freckles

reaches towards your bliss.

Song Choice: Love Reign O'er Me by The Who


This poem was created for the prompt given at Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads: Fireblossom Fridays Poetic Imagery. It is also linked to the Friday 55 at Verse Escape and Poets United Poetry Pantry #397.

Honey

I’ve known where he goes. How could his longing be a secret? Especially when I see the hunger in his eyes when someone says your name. At last he understands how his desire can be his ruin. Yet that knowledge means nothing when his mouth desires only to be filled by you.

  

I can only watch

his delight in licking lips

still sticky from you.

Song Choice: Jolene by Dolly Parton

This poem was inspired by a prompt at Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads: Love Hurts. It's also linked up to Poets United Poetry Pantry 391

Changeling

The Fair Folk are fond of mischief and misfits. Why else take a human child and switch it with one of their own? It may be a gift to live in a land you might otherwise have never known. But there is sadness too, in knowing you will never be quite part of the world of your blood.


Reshaping myself
to always fit, I forget
which is my true form.


Song Choice: Arcadia by Faun

This poem is linked to the Tuesday Platform at Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads

Even the Sky

Even the sky blushes when it thinks of the night to come. Anticipating the taste of you, the day passed so slowly. But your touch can stop time, making star lit night grow longer and punishing day for taking so long to yield.

Waiting for your skin

to alight upon my body

is sweet agony.

Song Choice: Despacito by Luis Fonsi and Daddy Yankee

This poem was inspired by a prompt given over at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads: Fashion Me Your Words, Slowly. It is also linked to the Friday 55 at Verse Escape and Poetry Pantry 385 at Poets United.

 I seriously love the song behind the prompt, especially because as a Spanish speaker, I know how unsubtle that song is. This was crazy fun to write.

Invitation

The weeping willow’s green curtain beckons souls who want to hide, yet still be outside. But merengue and the smell of barbeque float from the other side of the park. The bookworm waits for someone to speak her language before deciding.

Footfalls keep the beat

while Spanglish sings over the park

coaxing me to join.

Song Choice: Sube las Manos Pa' Arriba by Pitbull

This poem was created for Verse Escape's Friday 55 It is also linked to Poets United Poetry Pantry 383.

Beauty and Tea

The chajin seeks an atypical sense of perfection, not in symmetry, but in the beauty of nature. Too ruthless a concept of loveliness will keep you from appreciating the charm of an odd shaped bowl, mismatched tea tools and a well-loved vase. There is nothing we can point to as the perfect tree or the perfect flower, but yet we are moved by their beauty even with the lack of a hard measure of it. This concept of beauty applies outside the tearoom as well. To love someone does not require perfection, in lover or beloved, but appreciation of the oddities, quirks and glitches, yet still finding them lovely.

In uneven bowls,

and in my beloved’s smile,

I find perfection

Song Choice: You Are the Beauty by Gungor

I purchased this beautiful tea bowl from Art to Hold. It has it's own bit of history

Process note: Chajin literally means "tea person", one who studies the art of tea

This haibun is inspired by the prompt given over at A Dash of Sunny. This week's topic for Prompt Night is perfection