Dojo Haiku

Warriors don't train
in circles. Lines straight, eyes front,
focus forward. Proud.

Sensei Bruce

Masculine entrainment is a beautiful thing.

It calls to our core, of steely resolve.
It demands goodness of us, expects greatness.
It looks us in the eye, nods at the pain, says: Don't Give Up.
It does not comfort, it seduces by example.

It is fiercely loving, and exquisite.

lullaby and lament for Li

it became a moment
as its wings flapped
awkward, shy, determined, elusive

fluttering hesitantly above her head: Yes?
She did not feel it, or see it
got distracted by the Ego's feet making war at the border of her desk

Later, sighing, she saw the glint of the light on the tree trapped outside her window glowing in the Fresh Air.

A plague of locusts campaigning in her inbox by divine decree, she stayed put building pyramids in the sky. Time sneaked in and broke the camels back, gently offering her home time. Her body felt strange in full stretch, muscular revolutionaries making protest. The setting sun hurt her eyes, and she comforted them with shade.

weighed down with the incompleteness of the day, she steeled herself for the slow degradation of her night into tomorrow.

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precious person performing pantomine
prefabricated perfect placemat purchased
pink pretty precocious premature plump
placid protected plush preselected plot
pernicious planned persecuted propaganda
permission propagate purge predominate
pentuach prism polar pandemic port: pretext.

full stop

spiral in, spiral out
breathe
signal in, signal out
leave

circle in, circle out
sigh
censor in, censor out
cry

trickle in, trickle out
gasp
tremble in, tremble out
grasp

stop.

twisting

it is the hunting of the day
and the cadence of the will
that finds the prey

in the turning of the tide
and the floating of the heart
it burns it wide

of the dripping of the rain
and the slipping of the pride
the shadow gains

the means come, the thoughts go, the hand rests

it is the beating of the drum
and the gasping of the breath
that calls us come

in the sweeping of the shore
and the stabbing of the pain
it fills with more

of the singing in the night
and the dreaming of the mind
the winning fight

the means come, the thoughts go, the hand rests

on the wind

it rested delicately, a feather-weight of memory on an edge
the air stilled; awed into submission by the void

very slowly, like dawn unfolding one light particle at a time
understanding lifted the shadows of a long night

and higher, then impossibly higher still
a solitary flight imprints against a clear blue sky