He lives life like an arrow-
seeking the target with precision and speed,
visualizing the path and accuracy of flight-
a sense of accomplishment sensed at the moment of release.
Once the target is hit-
immediate dissatisfaction sets in,
waves of reservation flow in like the tide;
a blanket of lead pinning him down.
How will he break free?
twist, turn, and push out-
remnants of existence linger on the surface,
leaving a puncture wound for all to see.
Occasionally, a small piece breaks off-
left in the wound,
evidence of the hunt and pain ensued.
Once broken, he is forever weakened-
no amount of patching or sharpening
will bring back the original form.
Year after year there is gradual transformation-
one that is unbalanced:
one side sharpened,
while the other remains dulled.
All the while knowing-
a target will always be out there,
calling his name,
but one that cannot be attained.
He lives life like an arrow-
looking for the next target;
seeking a new adventure,
but rarely satisfied with what he has achieved.
Life pulls and tugs-
direction constantly changing.
Opposites are to attract-
creating harmony, balance.
Oddly, sometimes-
positive attracts positive,
negative clings to negative.
One’s desire for simplicity or peace-
can it be attained?
is there such an existence?
Perhaps the world goes around-
due to imbalance;
instability.
Perhaps we are actually neutral-
waiting for some direction,
any influence to show us the way.
Is it the push pull factor-
positive and negative,
leading to the desired path?
Those passed by are left-
in a purgatory of neutrality,
seeking a force,
occupying a space,
waiting for a match.
Matched with what?
a positive,
a negative,
or an eternity-
of stagnated neutrality?
~D.Thompson
*This is an “ABC Poem,” in which each letter of the alphabet is used for the first word of each line. Fun and challenging; yet doesn’t always yield natural results.
I’ve always carried my grandparents close to my heart, especially grandma aka Mamasan. She was funny, gracious, and determined. There was a conversation at the poker table last night about me not backing down in a hand and my quick wit. I naturally said outloud, “I get that from my grandma.”
On the drive home today, my eyes were frequently drawn to the clouds. I truly felt grandma’s presence as I captured the image above. While writing the poem, I confirmed her date of death. I was shocked to see it was July 16, 1999. Grandma is in me and with me, always…
Saku not Sake
The long aisle
divides-
family to one,
chanters to other.
Incense burns-
yellow roses,
Grandpa’s favorite,
draped across
her casket.
The chanting-
ebbs and flows
loud; soft
quick; slow.
Words I don’t understand-
but know,
know
are beautiful; peaceful.
A favorite song-
“We all live
in a yellow submarine,
a yellow submarine”
floats through the sanctuary
her final request fulfilled.
Saku
the daughter of Kai
mother of Kazumi.
I leave my grandma’s side knowing-
knowing
she smiles from above,
playful twinkle in her eye.
**As individuals, we all grieve in our own way and our own time. It is not for society to determine what we grieve about (not only a death) nor for how long (may never end). For those grieving, please give yourself permission to do what is best for you, in your own way, in your own time.
