Sunday, February 12, 2012

haibun || Sheila E. Murphy

Lamp, finer than the quiet, low breath on a hill, just here.
A quasi silence of the fields and nearby cave. Whatever permanence
appears, we clasp facsimiles of brain again, a wild soft pace
of walking on young paths. She would whisper that her energy had passed.
Now freedom owns its price. I used to sing, the shape of Latin roots
would cry, our depths of understanding crossed axes. Now pain, first part
of paint, obscures the facts. A will to have existed samples what we might give
up when asked. I live here, nourished by a furnace, glyphs dwindling
where they were. The land has peaks, sheds bravery. The limits of our cravings
chastize few of these tall birches. Look at the lake, feel slopes and whistle notable
excursions back to music I was taught, I tell myself. I limber for your touch.
I limit reason to inimitable justice as I fashion it from small things within reach.
Each creative act is framed by scraps I had dismissed. Each morning,
I view a symbol, green, on screen, to show the play occurring. Haiku waiting
to be scooped up to absorb long need. As if harmonic breath responded to a common

No such thing as same ole same ole, mantra with its quirks, replete with live invention

Sheila E. Murphy

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