The Innisfree Poetry Journal
www.innisfreepoetry.org
by Yoko Danno
hopscotch
on a moonlit night the child alone is playing hopscotch,
spellbound by the game, not knowing it's past time to go home⎯each time
she kicks the cobblestone over a line chalked on the street, she remembers her grandmother saying,
when you travel to a foreign country you must cross a border. when you step into a new land
you'll be relieved, to find an image of yourself, the one you abandoned in a mirror⎯
the child keeps breaking through the white line, her shadow hopping behind her
like a twin⎯grandma, every new line leads me to another!
moon
new: not existing before in the space between eyebrows, the deep round well glistening at the bottom
last quarter: his bow drawn to its full extent, way out of orbit the arrow disappears in a flash
full: beyond her usual brilliance she passes out of reach of our eyes fading out fixed stars
first quarter: moving slowly eastward each day the luminous shadow swelling to a whole
new: yin and yang reversed in the golden bowl containing a handful of seed dust
Departure
yesterday the house was empty⎯
wind rustled the carpet of dry sedge grass, moonlight streaming through a cleft of the shingled roof,
pale grey mist hovered on the lake hiding incessant ripples⎯
bamboo leaves falling in the blink of a star's birth,
white feathers scattering, the weaver at her loom keeps weaving, waiting⎯
tonight i want a clear sky, so he may wade across the milky river.
the earth fleeting under their feet, golden dust of the sun swirling in each other's arms
at dawn today⎯
sleeves heavy with dew,
clothes exchanged,
they depart, each heading for the next growing season.
anima
a wind is blowing from the caribbean sea, a singer sings sweetly,
on our way home my little girl found a bird, eyes closed in the wayside shrubbery⎯ i picked it up and felt it barely breathing, the feathers soft, ash-green, on my palm⎯
a woman is a rough sea quiet down below, she lifts her voice,
the fish jumped off the cutting board, flopping around on the wooden floor. with a knife in my hand, frozen, i watched until the headless carp calmed down⎯
a woman is a turbulent reflection of the rumbling sky, the singer softly groans,
the sun glazing the parched fields, the woman wailed like a wounded animal that had lost its young, and went out for food, water and a mate⎯
a woman is always double-hearted, the voice is whispering,
we put out to sea⎯my little girl sets free the tiniest of the three fish she caught, and we eat the rest to celebrate her birthday⎯
a wind is blowing on the blue-green sea, we breathe in, blow into paper balloons, and let them go.
crystal
past the point of no return, our jet trails sparkling white claw marks⎯
last night a burglar tore a page from my unraveled mystery book,
"how can you find a flower blooming in an icy lake?" the missing page says⎯
the moment a hand touches a hand, palm to palm, skin to skin under clear fresh water,
vapor rises from soft wet leaves, condenses into a blue orchid . . . freezes . . .
as we fly higher through air stratums to the home of the stars the temperature falls.
not even a blanket, nor the heat of blood circulating through a polar bear scratching the air can melt the flower in ice.
Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication
|