Shadow Commemoration Day Thirteen

One of the strangest things, is switching from the plural to the singular.  To go from ‘dogs’ to saying ‘dog’.  To go from saying, ‘Shadow and Unter’ to felling that stutter in the speech and saying ‘Unter’ alone.  There’s that moment before the walk, where instead of putting a harness on one dog and then on another, there is only one.  There’s that moment, walking down the street, where there’s only one leash.  There’s walking outside, with only one treat.  There’s filling only one dog bowl with food.  There’s more like this.  One of the strangest things, is switching from the plural to the singular.

two white flower blooms,
up high in a dogwood tree,
winds blow one away


P.S.  As a note, M. Sakran has recently had a poem published by Forge JournalForge Journal can be found here: Forge Journal.  The poem can found here: poem.

A milestone: 350th post

This is the 350th post on M. Sakran’s blog of and about poetry and poetry related things.  The first post was on April 24th, 2014.  Appreciation is offered to all who have interacted with the blog.

There have been a lot of things on the blog up to this point.  For example, there have been forty experimental poetry forms presented.  A series of poems written in those forms is currently on going, and will continue with tomorrow’s post.

Other things that have been on the blog include things like forty one photographs to inspire poetry, forty artworks to inspire poetry and forty one poetry topic ideas.  There have also been other things on the blog.  A complete list of posts can be seen on the posts list page.

If anyone has any thoughts about the blog, feel free to express them, using the form below:

In commemoration of this 350th post, here is a three hundred and fifty word haibun (both the paragraph and the haiku together add up to three hundred and fifty words).  Please enjoy.

In the spring, more than sixteen cycles of the moon ago, there, in the sand of the beach, something was written.  As the sun rose, and beat a drum with rhythm, more lines were drawn in the sand.  Around them, within them, and beside them, objects were gathered.  Shells, sand dollars, driftwood, sea weed, in little patterns and arrangements.  Birds flew by, crabs crawled on the shore, and fish looked out of the water to see the lines and to see the objects.  In a hut, made from bamboo, on certain days, when the sun beat its drum, someone came out, and to the collection, of lines in the sand, and shells, sand dollars, driftwood and sea weed, tried to add something to them.  On many drum beats, seeing what was there, and trying to add something mixing and unique.  Usually, more lines, more shells, more things from the sea.  Sometimes though, different things.  Still from around, still on the beach, still from the sea, but something new.  Maybe rocks.  Maybe forms built from the sand.  Matching but new.  Still on the beach, and in some way, there before, but also, not there before.  And then, when finished, for the drum beat, but before the next noted one, this someone would stand and think, at least on most beats.  From back on a tall hill, looking out over the beach, seeing the lines and shells, sand dollars and driftwood, sea weed and rocks, and the forms in sand, and seeing a totality, with some notice of the individual things, and thinking of something else to place on the shore.  Something that the birds and crabs and fish would want to see.  Something that might be light, or something that might be heavy.  And thinking of these things, with other considerations, and putting them in a place, and then standing back, out on the hill, and seeing what was there.  Then going back inside the bamboo hut and waiting for the birds, crabs and fish to see.

Waves flow on the shore,
and on one morning someday,
making the beach clear

Artwork to inspire poetry: The orange chair

The Orange Chair

Above is a piece of artwork the can inspire poetry.  Here is a poem inspired by this artwork:

The orange chair is upon the rug, within the room with the wood floor.  It’s large and soft with a frame of wood inside.  The outside is cloth – not leather.  It is not the shiny cloth.  The kind that almost seems oily.  It is regular cloth.  Cloth with little lines sown in it.  The chair fits.  It fits on the rug.  It fits in the room.  Its color fits.  Orange seems right.  Behind the chair is a wall.  It’s covered in plaster.  Real plaster.  On lathe strips.  It’s painted orange.  A light orange.  A faint orange.  The wall, the floor, the rug.  They fit.  They fit with the chair.  The orange chair.

The oak leaf sits,
upon the tree,
within the forest.

A Poem: Peppercorns

The last few peppercorns, just one layer thick, at the bottom of the mill.  Little, pointed, black spheres – waiting.  A whole column.  Hundreds.  Turned and ground and spread.  Dust is still at the bottom.  Little black specks.  Some white.  Some brown.  A smell.  Aroma.  The layer waits for the turn.  Soon parts will disappear.  Then a quarter.  Then a half.  They all will fall in.  And soon they are dust.

wood is fed
into the wood chipper
clouds dissolve