Unknowingly she, poet, captured
a moment I remembered,
of walking with salmon,
of connecting with eternal.
Feet icicle freezing,
yet warmed and massaged
by those same opal fins
she described.
My daughter and I,
captivated by glinting rainbows
beneath the river’s rivulets,
had cautiously waded in.
In firebrands’ shadows,
autumn leaves
dying orange and red,
we’d joined death and creation.
If I respond with my own fish story,
do I diffuse or enlarge her spawned memory?
The following banter between a friend and I is the result of a long-standing peeve of hers that my haiku … aren’t.
DS: First off, happy birthday! Hope it was a good one. Second: THOSE AREN’T HAIKU!
DK: (Moi)
I write these Haiku,/
girlfriend, just for you./
A tisket, a tasket,/
You’ll blow a gasket/
at the poetry I do.
(a limerick).
DS: ok…I like that one, but c’mon…you’re talented! You can do REAL HAIKU. I challenge you.
DK: My birthday called dawn./
Light swept, bright, down mountain slopes./
My life’s before me.
DS: YES YES YES!!
DK: She’ll oft criticize./
I’ve seen ducks’ moist backs before./
She still makes me laugh.
DK: She smiles, radiant./
A bright bouquet reflects her./
Miracles happen.
DK: (do you want me to stop?)
DS: Yes you can stop now. But please keep writing them correctly!
DK: If I stop the flow/
of protoplasmic verse, I fear/
my nucleus’ burst.
DS:NO NO NO!! NOT HAIKU!!
You can’t just put a /
Where you want the line to end.
Thought must be complete.
DK:
I understand that./
My words freeflow like rivers./
They tickle my mind.
Without my canvas,/
my river* of inspired/
words simply dried up.
OR
Remove my canvas./
My torrent* of inspired/
words simply dries up.
When words stop flowing,/
like when a river dries up,/
a fertile field dies.
You’re never lonely/
once you, like a river’s true/
path, find someone else./
Christian and Buddhist/
argue and criticize. I/
float my own river.
Stones thrown into streams/
can eventually change the/
delta of rivers.
