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 2006-7 by Cook Communication
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