Category Archives: Digital Art & Photos

Cinqku’s 24-25-26

detached

it would
be easy
to look away
to live life unaware
detached

easy
but not bliss
apathy costs
bits of soul, hardening
of heart

bliss is
not the be
all, end all goal,
but found in a moment’s
presence

~kat


It’s been another one of those long work-day weeks, where I barely have enough time to eat, sleep and start again. So I’m playing catch up today with three linked cinqkus. Have you noticed, the world is a mess…hurricanes, earthquakes, forest fires, impeachments, Brexit, nuclear accidents, children in cages or slaughtered, emboldened dictators and wannabe oligarchs. As much as I would love to turn it all off, and enjoy the first days of autumn, I can’t. My heart is made to bleed…and the truth is, when I care, and am doing the right thing, and being kind, and helping, my soul is energized. Ignorance is not bliss. Being present, living, participating in this messy life…that is bliss! And moments that take my breath away. Oh…and one more thing…I just noticed that if I combine the last lines of each stanza from above, I get this…

detached
of heart
presence

Peace…


A cinqku must always have 5 lines and a perfect seventeen-syllable count. The lines typically follow a 2,3,4,6,2 format. There is no title requirement on the second line. As for syntax and diction styles, it follows the free Tanka style originally. There are no metric requirements for a cinqku poem. Additionally, the final line must contain a cinquain or kireji turn for emphasis. 


Monday with the Muse

nothing

Helix Nebula (aka: The “Eye of God” Nebula)

into nothingness

think of being
past the point of
existence, a place
without imagination
everything coming
apart, a blur at the
edge of tangled
twilight, left to be
buried beneath
daydreams, life
translucent, as
real as black stars
buried in ash

~kat


A Blackout Poem inspired by the poem below:

The Celebrated Colors of the Local Sunsets
by Matthew Wimberly

The day feels as thin
as the letters fading from
half a can of spray paint
a decade ago on the brick wall
of the closed down
Suder Feed Supply where
we used
to
skateboard and think
of all the crimes the police
could punish us with
for
being poor, and teenagers,
for wearing skin-tight jeans
and growing our hair
like a girl’s, for almost anything—
at least it felt like it then.
I can’t imagine home
without thinking of the
past
and the faintest stir
of indignation. It’s beside
the point.
Today, I’m revisiting Miłosz
with a pen pressed to the pages
making notes in the margins.
In 1987, in Berkeley,
he is doing the same, and thinking
back on the end
of his countries, their
“posthumous
existence.” Like him
I know
a place
I can’t return to, and without
much imagination can picture
everything coming apart, one way
or another. When I imagine
how it might go, it is
just like this: I am memorizing
bird calls and wild
plants which become
a blur
at the far edge of my yard,
their Latin names
tangled
in my mouth. Didn’t I
already show you this?
The country at
twilight
and a far-off darkness
of pines, a deep red sky
imagined for this page. What I
left out
wasn’t meant
to be remarkable—
a bruise faded from the surface,
the wounds
buried
like overwintered wasps
plotting assassinations
beneath the snow. So let’s see
if I can draw it into focus,
like the truant
daydreaming in class
suddenly with something to say—
the one end I know complete.
Once, I thanked my father
for the gift of this
life,
something he didn’t hear.
It was two years before he died
and he was high
on the
translucent painkillers
the hospital ordered to keep him
comfortable after surgery.
It was
as real as anything
I ever told him. I stood
over him in the hospital bed
and traced the outline of his body
under the gown, the collar and hip bones,
his stomach, his penis, and balls,
numbered the
black stars
printed on the cotton and listened
to him breathe, mouth
open, just so, a way
into the hive growing in his chest.
He didn’t hear, and then, he couldn’t.
In those years, I barely spoke to him
and now not an hour can pass
I don’t hear him, now that
what he has to say is always
final, always a last word. And
Miłosz is
buried in Kraków
and my father has entered
eternity as
ash, and I am
certain what doesn’t last
lasts—Hydrangea quercifolia,
Hypericum densiflorum,
Solidago rugosa


Cinqku #23 – A Trio in Honor of August

notus

son of
the stars and
dawn, Notus* drives
the swelling south winds of
autumn

laying
bare summer’s
bones, the reaper’s
sickle, sparing none this
harvest

season
letting go
drawing inward,
many blessings to be
counted

~kat
*NOTOS (Notus) was the god of the south wind, one of the four directional Anemoi (WindGods). He was the wet, storm-bringing wind of late summer and early autumn. Notos dwelt in Aithiopia (Ethiopia), the southernmost realm in the geographies of myth.


A cinqku must always have 5 lines and a perfect seventeen-syllable count. The lines typically follow a 2,3,4,6,2 format. There is no title requirement on the second line. As for syntax and diction styles, it follows the free Tanka style originally. There are no metric requirements for a cinqku poem. Additionally, the final line must contain a cinquain or kireji turn for emphasis. 

 


Cat Rescue Update…

Integration complete…Schrodinger and Mama cat, Matilda, one step closer to domesticated! I’m so happy!


Cinqku #22

hush, be
still my heart,
dawns first light, bright,
through tree leaves, on the breeze
dancing

~kat


A cinqku must always have 5 lines and a perfect seventeen-syllable count. The lines typically follow a 2,3,4,6,2 format. There is no title requirement on the second line. As for syntax and diction styles, it follows the free Tanka style originally. There are no metric requirements for a cinqku poem. Additionally, the final line must contain a cinquain or kireji turn for emphasis. 


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