Willow VI: Father II (Haiku from 11-11-13)

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“Willow VI: Father II”
by Ry Hakari

Lightning wind esper
Will-o’-the-wisp’s a live wire
Raising Cain, Hell, tame

“I finally get what you’ve been saying, now that we’re knee deep side by side. The storm clouds are circling above us as we struggle against the tide. I feel your grip firm on my shoulder, but this fear in my head won’t subside — They patiently circle around us as we hold out… Oh father, why have they forsaken me? You warned me that they would! The curse is passing down the bloodline — It’s spoken and misunderstood! We’re losing light and strength of will, the darkened depths beckoning still, then we hold on against the tide... Another storm you’re left to fight alone — Remember son, you’re reaping what you’ve sown. Under the waves we’re sinking like a stone — I’m sorry son, you’re reaping what you’ve sown… You’re reaping what you’ve sown! We’re slowly losing ground, and hope is harder to maintain when all the prayers we prayed feel lost like tears in the rain! The water is pulling down, the moon’s eclipsing the sun — The ending that we knew would come, has finally begun! You’re reaping what you’ve sown! It’s finally begun! You’re reaping what you’ve sown! I’m sorry son, you’re reaping what you’ve sown! This sorrow weighs down on my shoulders, this fear’s getting harder to hide — You’ll leave me alone in this darkness, left to hold out against the tide…”
— Celldweller, “Against The Tide”

Elly, tell me what is wrong with you, why do you haunt me silently, or is it me and our promise is a mirage, a false memory? Pangs plumb the bloodlines of clotted loves not yet lost, circling the drains as the sun slowly sets days in a mass horizon grave — You wear a burial shroud invisibly (I’ve seen it), when allowed a bridal gown (or so I think), but only change names, your face. You never escape twilight’s silent cage with your suitcase, retracing nightmares eve you always hesitate and slip away as I wake! Elly, why are you chasing this recluse, I can’t believe it’s me you’d choose, or is it just me, only myself after I narcissistically? It’s not feasible for Cabin-fevered behemoths to utter “Shibboleth” without a lisp, unless done with Spring Honeysuckle, but with tight lips pursed, the currency of words is mostly exchanged through language read, unheard, but presumption is our restless blood’s a sanguine hue, not felt caged in blue veins that seem winter weeping willow’s bough-bar’s double. ‘Why does it seem to take the littlest things the longest to say, like “I know I’m ok” or “hello” to new people notwithstanding? Why not live life like you’re alive and let the past die and stay dead if yesterday’s always’ have faded grey — why necromancy?’ I’m beside myself with curiosity of how to demystify the disguise, weaving left and right and swaying back and forth half-asleep. I want to sit on the curb and sink into the concrete and think out in the open, not under an ever-dying willow tree in my mind when I’m tired of running after or away from you — maybe what I really want is an entirely different environment, temperament, to not be a taciturn in person, for my restless hands not to express my behemoth mind so wild, blue beast soothed by true beaut. Elly, tell me what is wrong with you, why do you haunt me silently, or is it me and our promise is a mirage, a false memory? With so much dark in my drifting fog, light intermittent within inner dialog, I cannot recollect anything before this hazy melancholy or imagine anything after this fever dream manifesting our ambiguous oath’s residue into marriage vows — a happy-ending in reality. Chaos building blocks make up broken complexes, word-play paradoxes in Manic-Depressant Metropolis on M. C. Escher Boulevard where Avant-garde bard, elusive muse chase each other’s ethereal hearts like shooting stars on endless loops, dogs after cats after yarn, but maybe the street to Resilience, the Skyline’s Vermillion Intermission balancing between sleep and waking, we must take individually… Elly, why are you chasing this recluse, I can’t believe it’s me you’d choose, or is it just me, only myself after I narcissistically?

—————————-

Will-o-‘the-wisp / Ignis Fatuus:
folklore.
atmospheric ghost lights seen by travellers at night, especially over bogs, swamps or marshes. It resembles a flickering lamp and is said to recede if approached, drawing travellers from the safe paths.

Have eyes in the back of your head:
idiom.
to know everything that is happening around you // Parents of young children have to have eyes in the back of their heads.

Esper:
acroynym.
Extra SEnsory PERception
noun.
an individual capable of telepathy and other similar paranormal abilities.

Live wire:
noun.
1. vivacious, alert, or energetic person.
2. a wire carrying an electric current

Raise Cain (old-fashioned):
idiom.
to complain angrily about something and to cause a lot of trouble for the people who are responsible for it
Biblical reference.
in Genesis 4, Cain kills his brother Abel. In the context of my haiku, I was suggesting that as a parent, I would raise up children who are rebellious by nature of being human, to be be tame, suggesting they would be good kids, as far as children with fallen human natures can be with positive spiritual guidance.

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Gentle Willow Wire Tree by Sal Villano
Public Domain Image
http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=16641

August 29 – Streams In The Desert Devotional By Mrs. Lettie Cowman

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NOTE: Today I sprinkle some of the ashes of my recently deceased dog, in the grave of the dead willow tree. Somewhat .ike Shel Silverstein’s “The Giving Tree”, the dying willow tree was like a father to me — it saved my life. On the day before my 20th birthday, I sat underneath it, contemplating suicide from dawn to dusk, and decided instead, the next day to check into a hospital, to get help for myself. It’s even more poetic that my birth-father paid for my dog to be cremated. Sowing the ashes of my best friend in the willow grave is symbolic for how phoenixes rise from the ashes, and symbolizes the line “Turning over a new leaf under a brand new tree” from this excerpt of my old poem “Recycled Dreams” :

“August angels in the Sun
Walking along the skyline side by side
The clouds are glowing red and shining orange
I think we’re getting nearer today-dream’s eve
See love live breathe smile learn and believe
Turning over a new leaf under a brand new tree
Hand in hand with fingers intertwined
Soft and gentle is your touch
And your face reddening with blush
Pure and beautiful in every way
Just like the raindrops from the clouds
Caught in our outstretched hands like a feather
It’s a vision of a promise that’s mysterious
And I’m curious of exactly what it means”

———-

And he went out carrying his own cross (John 19:17).

There is a poem called “The Changed Cross.” It represents a weary one who thought that her cross was surely heavier than those of others whom she saw about her, and she wished that she might choose an other instead of her own. She slept, and in her dream she was led to a place where many crosses lay, crosses of different shapes and sizes. There was a little one most beauteous to behold, set in jewels and gold. “Ah, this I can wear with comfort,” she said. So she took it up, but her weak form shook beneath it. The jewels and the gold were beautiful, but they were far too heavy for her.

Next she saw a lovely cross with fair flowers entwined around its sculptured form. Surely that was the one for her. She lifted it, but beneath the flowers were piercing thorns which tore her flesh.

At last, as she went on, she came to a plain cross, without jewels, without carvings, with only a few words of love inscribed upon it. This she took up and it proved the best of all, the easiest to be borne. And as she looked upon it, bathed in the radiance that fell from Heaven, she recognized her own old cross. She had found it again, and it was the best of all and lightest for her.

God knows best what cross we need to bear. We do not know how heavy other people’s crosses are. We envy someone who is rich; his is a golden cross set with jewels, but we do not know how heavy it is. Here is another whose life seems very lovely. She bears a cross twined with flowers. If we could try all the other crosses that we think lighter than our own, we would at last find that not one of them suited us so well as our own.
–Glimpses through Life’s Windows

If thou, impatient, dost let slip thy cross,
Thou wilt not find it in this world again;
Nor in another: here and here alone
Is given thee to suffer for God’s sake.
In other worlds we may more perfectly
Love Him and serve Him, praise Him,
Grow nearer and nearer to Him with delight.
But then we shall not any more
Be called to suffer, which is our appointment here.
Canst thou not suffer, then, one hour or two?
If He should call thee from thy cross today,
Saying: “It is finished-that hard cross of thine
From which thou prayest for deliverance,
“Thinkest thou not some passion of regret
Would overcome thee? Thou would’st say,
“So soon? Let me go back and suffer yet awhile
More patiently. I have not yet praised God.”
Whensoe’er it comes, that summons that we look for,
It will seem soon, too soon. Let us take heed in time
That God may now be glorified in us.
–Ugo Bassi’s Sermon in a Hospital

“Faded From The Winter”
by Iron & Wine

Daddy’s ghost behind you
Sleeping dog beside you
You’re a poem of mystery
You’re the prayer inside me

Spoken words like moonlight
You’re the voice that I like

Needlework and seedlings
In the way you’re walking
To and fro the timbers
Faded from the winter

Deja vu… I’m 27, it’s been 16 years since I was 11, when the weird familiar girl in the woods rejected me for unknown reasons, as I shared in a poem recently when I wrote — ‘Ill-star-struck — cupid shot an albatross! Dream on vagabond — shuffle off and die!’ … ‘If I could, I would knock on wood for you, for as the twigs bend, so the trees incline!” Always eavesdropping, etymologies oddly evolving evening’s dropping… Made like a willow tree, she leaves weeping ‘what my ears can’t hear, can’t make me cry tears’”

“The sky was covered with a thin layer of clouds, not a patch of blue visible anywhere, though it did not look like rain. There was no wind, either. The branches of a nearby willow tree were laden with lush foliage and drooping heavily, almost to the ground, though they were still, as if lost in deep thought.

Occasionally a small bird landed unsteadily on a branch, but soon gave up and fluttered away. Like a distraught mind, the branch quivered slightly, then returned to stillness.

“I might get a call on my cell while we’re talking,” Ao said. “I hope you’ll forgive me. I have a couple of business-related things I’m working on.”

“No problem. I can imagine how busy you must be.”

“Cell phones are so convenient that they’re an inconvenience,” Ao said.

“You said there was something you wanted to talk about,” Ao said, as if addressing someone in the distance.

“During summer vacation in my sophomore year in college I came back to Nagoya and called you,” Tsukuru began. “You told me then that you didn’t want to see me anymore, not to ever call again, and that all four of you felt the same way. Do you remember that?”

“Of course I do.”

“I want to know why,” Tsukuru said.

“Just like that, after all this time?” Ao said, sounding a little surprised.

“Yes, after all this time. I wasn’t able to ask you back then. It was too unexpected, too much of a shock. And I was afraid to hear the reason you guys so flat-out rejected me. I felt like if you told me, I’d never recover. So I tried to forget about all of it, without finding out what was going on. I thought time would heal the pain.”

Ao tore off a small piece of scone and popped it in his mouth. He chewed it slowly, washing it down with the cappuccino. Tsukuru went on.

“Sixteen years have gone by, but it feels like the wound is still there inside me. Like it’s still bleeding. Something happened recently, something very significant to me, that made me realize this. That’s why I came to Nagoya to see you. I apologize for showing up out of the blue like this.”

Ao stared for a time at the heavy, sagging branches of the willow. “You have no idea why we did that?” he said, finally.

“I’ve thought about it for sixteen years, but I have no clue.”

Ao narrowed his eyes, seemingly perplexed, and rubbed the tip of his nose—his habit, apparently, when he was thinking hard. “When I told you that back then you said, I see, and hung up. You didn’t object or anything. Or try to dig deeper. So naturally I thought you knew why.”

“Words don’t come out when you’re hurt that deeply,” Tsukuru said.

Ao didn’t respond. He tore off another piece of scone and tossed it toward some pigeons. The pigeons swiftly flocked around the food. He seemed to be used to doing this. Maybe he often came here on his break and shared his lunch with the birds.

“Okay, so tell me. What was the reason?” Tsukuru asked.

“You really don’t have any idea?”

“I really don’t.”

Just then a cheery melody rang out on Ao’s cell phone. He slipped the phone from his suit pocket, checked the name on the screen, impassively pressed a key, and returned it to his pocket. Tsukuru had heard that melody somewhere before. An old pop song of some kind, probably popular before he was born, but he couldn’t recall the title.

“If you have something you need to do,” Tsukuru said, “please feel free to take care of it.”

Ao shook his head. “No, it’s okay. It’s not that important. I can handle it later.”

Tsukuru took a drink of mineral water from the plastic bottle. “Why did I have to be banished from the group?”

Ao considered this for some time before he spoke. “If you’re saying that you have no idea why, it means—what?—that you—didn’t have any sexual relationship with Shiro?”

Tsukuru’s lips curled up in surprise. “A sexual relationship? No way.”

“Shiro said you raped her,” Ao said, as if reluctant to even say it. “She said you forced her to have sex.”

Tsukuru started to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. Despite the water, the back of his throat felt so dry that it ached.

“I couldn’t believe you’d do something like that,” Ao continued. “I think the other two felt the same way, both Kuro and Aka. You weren’t the type to force someone to do something they didn’t want to do. You weren’t violent, we knew that. But Shiro was totally serious about it, obsessed even. You had a public face and a hidden, private face, she said. You had a dark, hidden side, something unhinged and detached from the side of you that everyone knew. When she said that, there was nothing we could say.”

“Tsukuru bit his lip for a time. “Did Shiro explain how I supposedly raped her?”

“She did. Very realistically, and in great detail. I didn’t want to hear any of it. Frankly, it was painful to hear. Painful, and sad. It hurt me, I guess I should say. Anyway, she got very emotional. Her body started trembling, and she was so enraged that she looked like a different person. According to Shiro, she traveled to Tokyo to see a concert by a famous foreign pianist and you let her stay in your apartment in Jiyugaoka. She told her parents she was staying in a hotel, but by staying with you, she saved money. Normally she might have hesitated to stay alone in a man’s place, but it was you, so she felt safe. But she said that in the middle of the night you forced yourself on her. She tried to resist, but her body was numb and wouldn’t move. You both had a drink before bedtime, and you might have slipped something into her glass. That’s what she told us.”

Tsukuru shook his head. “Shiro never visited my place in Tokyo once, let alone stay over.”

Ao shrugged his shoulders a touch. He made a face like he’d bitten into something bitter, and glanced off to one side. “The only thing I could do was believe what she said. She told us she’d been a virgin. That you’d deflowered her by force, and it was painful and she’d bled. Shiro was always so shy and bashful, and I couldn’t imagine a reason why she’d make up such a graphic story.”

Tsukuru turned to look at Ao’s profile. “Granted, but why didn’t you ask me? Shouldn’t you have given me a chance to explain? Instead of trying me in absentia like that?”

Ao sighed. “You’re absolutely right. In retrospect, yes, that’s what we should have done. We should have listened to your side of the story. But at the time, we couldn’t. It was impossible. Shiro was agitated and confused like you wouldn’t believe…”
— Haruki Murakami, Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage (Released August 12, 2014 just over 2 weeks ago)

This is the summary of the book on Amazon:

“Here he gives us the remarkable story of Tsukuru Tazaki, a young man haunted by a great loss; of dreams and nightmares that have unintended consequences for the world around us; and of a journey into the past that is necessary to mend the present. It is a story of love, friendship, and heartbreak for the ages.”

The book was released just over 2 weeks ago, and I’m about half-way through it now. I’ve read over 200 pages (iPod Touch size pages) from it today, and couple chapters back Tsukuru had a weird dream as an adult that paralleled Shiro’s story, where a strange shadow-man that Tsukuru called the Gray Man (a kind of colorless doppelganger double of Tsukuru), froze Tsukuru’s body, and seemed to be orchestrating the dream, possessing Shiro, making her have sex with Tsukuru. Tsukuru couldn’t move at first, His body was frozen, like he was a prisoner locked in his own frozen dreaming body, like a sleeper cell, where Shiro was trapped and forced to sleep with him, seemingly willingly, but apparently not.

Sounds similar to the poems I base all my writing on in some sense, with my dying weeping willow memory palace, based on strange recurring dreams I’ve had for at least 10 years, since when I started writing in 2004, if not sooner.

(213)

By Ry Hakari

February 28, 2006 Tuesday

“Twenty-One Shades of Blue”

It’s constant winter here
And the stars are falling down
Lighting up the clouds
As the wind cries loud
Because love has me
In the sleeper cell
I’m a true Jack Frost
And my name’s hush-hush
I pay off my promises
With the currency
Of cold closed lips
So I can live and breathe
In this zero breeze
As it consumes me
Under the willow tree
While waiting for the sun
To come out from
Above the storm
Down below
To the center blue
Where I stand frozen still

—–

Written June 29, 2014.

“21 Shades Of Blue Intertext Part 1: The Sign of the Virgin Scales on the Cusp of Eternity”
by Ry Hakari/Scales

‘Ill-star-struck — cupid shot an albatross!
Dream on vagabond — shuffle off and die!’
‘If I could, I would knock on wood for you,
for as the twigs bend, so the trees incline!”

Always eavesdropping, etymologies
oddly evolving evening’s dropping…
Made like a willow tree, she leaves weeping
‘what my ears can’t hear, can’t make me cry tears’

I’ve waited through the rains of two decades
for clouds of grey to fade in shades of blue
déjà vu spotting memories’ patches,
déjà entendu splashing silences

The cosmic palette active, evident
in the heaven’s investment in the scene
surrounding these cloudy looking-glass selves
condescending from high-shelved horizons

Wet blacktop’s the backdrop stopping me from
the sidewalk, my storm-washed plans in chalk
‘Kýrie Eléison! Stop these liaisons!
Their fog has made me an amnesiac!

God, I’ve forgotten how to discern
through echos in silence, stirred by panic
your optimistic presence whispering
wordlessly past spiritual tinnitus

If silence is golden, my tongue’s silver
eloquence is less measured against it
I am an obstacle unto myself
if I cannot keep quiet a secret

proclaiming my name in pride without shame
in the way it goes like grain with the chaff
of my voice, filling wind blown in hot-air
against the night’s chilled, through chattering teeth

Blue Lessons (part 4) by CpSingleton © 2014

fergusandthedruid:

Ahahahaha! Love this! Reminded me of this scene from Dumber & Dumber-er:

and this one, of Bob Sagat’s character’s hilarious reaction to the events in that scene:

You are hilarious and talented with creative writing and comedy my friend! :)

Originally posted on Madstoffa's crunchy house!:

The fart smell of mushy peas wafted from the small prep kitchen in the back as Pottsie stuffed the pin-bone triangles of fish into the blender.
They say that small things amuse small minds, well the whizzing of the blenders revolutions quickly grabbed the chemically battered brain of Pottsie and had him in a vice-like grip.
He heard the songs of days gone by chattering along to the hypnotic visual of the little blender.
It had been similar, yet more intense, the previous night…
Once the penguin had decided to spring into action nobody had any choice but to let it wash over them.
The artificial flames of the electric fire became little cheeky dancing devils, red and yellow ones, calling his name in a sing-song manner.
He had watched it for hours. Fascinated by the dancing.
For so long that he allowed the need for a pee to climb…

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A 365 Daily Challenge podcast – Episode 3

fergusandthedruid:

Awesome spoken word poems and music bro, such a treat. 11 and 1/2 incredible minutes. Sorry about your late friend. Love the focus on dreams, and all the familiar imagery and ideas. It’s crazy how many people I am mutually subscribed to on here, and to see day after day, how alike we are, creatively. Love the blue fire background image for the podcast, it and the poems remind me of a few verses from a poem I wrote years ago: “Vindicate my soul fire’s blue ballad and prove my allegory story definite, true and right while as I do the same in sacrifice for the same.”

———

I think this quote pairs well with your podcast, which I’m listening to for the third time now. Love it!

—–

“You’re wasting your life being involved with me.”

“I’m not wasting anything.”

“But I might never recover. Will you wait for me forever? Can you wait 10 years, 20 years?”

“You’re letting yourself be scared by too many things,” I said. “The dark, bad dreams, the power of the dead. You have to forget them. I’m sure you’ll get well if you do.”

“If I can,” said Naoko, shaking her head.

“If you can get out of this place, will you live with me?” I asked.

“Then I can protect you from the dark and from bad dreams. Then you’d have me instead of Reiko to hold you when things got difficult.”

Naoko pressed still more firmly against me.

“That would be wonderful,” she said.”
― Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

Originally posted on Espen Stenersrød- From Pen To Heart:

Good evening

The third episode is finally here after a long summer

The playlist is
1. Intro music (Decknical)
2. Myriam Heffels – Alone in the crowd
3. Michael Kobernus – Iron Clad Garden
4. Espen Stenersrød – Venemous Delight
5. Kitty – Day 56
6. Myriam Heffels – Pure Love
7. Kitty
8. Myriam Heffels – Common Courtesy
9. MesAyah – 20 bars from 365 Daily Challenge(prod Decknical)

This time I have with me Michael Kobernus, Myriam Heffels and Kitty reading poetry. I also have a reading, I also have two musical contributions that I’ve been sitting for a while. My late friend left some music for me on my beloved Mac, the summers he lived in our apartment. Therefore I let the episode start with music from him and ends with what I recorded during the summer, where I gathered from 365 words so far, also over his…

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No. 602

fergusandthedruid:

“His mind floated in the amniotic fluid of memory, listening for echoes of the past. His father, meanwhile, had no idea that such a vivid scene was burned into Tengo’s brain or that, like a cow in the meadow, Tengo was endlessly regurgitating fragments of the scene to chew on, a cud from which he obtained essential nutrients. Father and son: each was locked in a deep, dark embrace with his secrets.”
― Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

Originally posted on Madstoffa's crunchy house!:

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photo credit: aminaabuelhawa.wordpress.com

The Screech. By CpSingleton © 2014

The screech came to play
Yesterday.
Nobody heard it but me.

It built up until I curled into a
Ball.
Trying desperately to smile.

He must have been in another’s
Head
Over the last few weeks.

His unkempt nails drawing their
Blood.
Now he’s back in mine.

I should be less selfish and be
Grateful
That I’m saving another’s mind,

As he squirms and bites the peace
Walls
I have erected for his prison.

His savagery driving my voice to
Monotones.
To single syllable sentences.

Like severe toothache for the
Mind.
That no pain. All pain.

Today I will contain him.
Today I will contain him.
Today I will contain him…
Again.

View original

The last days

fergusandthedruid:

I subscribe to http://johncoyote.wordpress.com/ and he reblogged your poem, and now I am. It seems you and I are similarly inspired, willowdot21 :)

———-

“It’s constant winter here and the stars are falling down, lighting up the clouds as the wind cries loud, because love has me in the sleeper cell. I’m a true Jack Frost and my name’s hush-hush — I pay off my promises with the currency of cold closed lips so I can live and breathe in this zero breeze as it consumes me under the willow tree while waiting for the sun to come out from above the storm, down below, to the center blue, where I stand frozen still…”
— Ry Hakari, “21 Shades of Blue” (February 28, 2006)

Originally posted on willowdot21:

Rows of empty houses lining empty street ,I do not feel frightened for there is no one left to meet.

Everywhere is hopeless everywhere the same there is a menace hanging in the air a menace with no name.

It is hanging from the branches and draping on the ground  no good to look for comfort there is none to be found.

The sky is looking heavy as if it could hold snow , the birds are undecided whether to stay or whether to go.

The temperature is rising as the darkness seems to grow I feel an urge to hide and it is pulling me below.

There are cars galore for us to drive but there is no where to go, there is electric and gas and water they just left it all to flow.

Everything is still working  so everything is free so for those of us…

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