Riding the Wind » Poetry

The Dream

Mike — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 18:28:58 +0000

I’m running as quickly as I can, my bare feet flashing out in front of me and slapping the hard white sand. As I run, I notice the vast emptiness of this place and it terrifies me. How am I to get to safety? Where can I go? I notice a black curved line in the distance and change direction, surging toward it as fast as my small body can take me. He is still behind me. I don’t see him so much as I get a sense of him back there, his presence a taint on my very being. A flash of his face overwhelms me with fear and I try to run faster. It’s like a camel’s face, but blood red and with dripping yellow fangs. His ears are longer than a camel’s, and he suddenly calls in some way, raising his head briefly to the sky. What does that mean? Are others coming? He’s too fast. I come to the black line and see that it is a road. No. It isn’t a road, it is a frozen black river in the middle of this desert. I get the sense that he can’t cross this. If I cross I’ll be safe. I leap almost recklessly down the bank and skid across the ice toward the safety of the other side. My left foot thumps onto the soft sand along the far bank. Just as it lands, he’s there looming over my right shoulder, his fangs sinking into my flesh. My voice joins his as we scream to the sky.

I wake up panting. I’m terrified and I want my mother, so I get out of bed and venture into the darkness. The big circular rug is there in the next room and I lay down on it, gathering the nerve to enter my parents’ bedroom. Will they be angry with me for waking them? I play with one of the orange tassels on the rug then get up, walking into their room. There is no darkness greater or deeper than the darkness of their room as they sleep. I lose my nerve. I find my way to their closet and climb inside, losing myself in the safety of the confined space and the scent of shoes. I drift off to sleep, safe from the creature.

two in the morning –
a nightmare beast comes calling
in a young boy’s dream

Frigid Morning Walk

Mike — Mon, 02 Feb 2009 12:52:38 +0000

Frigid Morning walk by M.J. Adams frigid morning walk winter caresses my cheek while I wait for spring Related posts:Three in the morning Evening walk Weak Dawn Related posts:

Stupid Argument

Mike — Sun, 01 Feb 2009 21:03:27 +0000

Stupid Argument by M.J. Adams stupid argument hot tears stinging my chapped face as she holds my hand Related posts:The Meeting Dream journey Scent of recent rain Related posts:

The Meeting

Mike — Sun, 01 Feb 2009 04:09:24 +0000

Pittsburgh airport, and I’ve just landed. I’m expecting to see her somewhere, and search for her face as I make my way out of the obstacle course of Arrivals and security. I feel as if it is taking too long, like wading through a mangrove forest, the Sundarbans of my emotions choking me off from functioning as my bipedal nature intends. I start to worry, because I can’t find her. My flight was delayed and I’m worried she’s gone. I can only hang around security so long, so I start to head toward the plane of oblivion known as baggage claim. Here people are usually trapped in a state of limbo as they watch the dice roll. A lucky roll will produce the correct bags, an unlucky one produces a conversation in a tiny office full of diagrams of luggage and detailed forms to complete. Strangely, there are few people here. I seem to be quite alone.

As I round a corner, my heart stops. My body no longer exists. I’m floating on a warm jelly substance toward a glowing light. Her hair is like liquid gold, her skin like a smooth white moon and the glow around her destroys my life and creates it anew. I barely manage to contain the confused tears which fight to gain the touch of air. As I draw near, her scent envelopes me like a layer of hot caramel. When I touch her, I feel like a newborn foal struggling to understand its own limbs. Is my touch foul or offensive? My very soul begs her to take my life for being unworthy. As I kiss her, I feel hot inside. The essence of her is burning the wrongness inside of me away. I look into her eyes and see the real sea. This isn’t that tropical blue but rather the blue-grey of the storm tossed sea, the sea reflecting the half light of dawn and dusk, the sea of the north, the sea of her people. This sea has a thickness, a luster and a heart. This sea is the sea of her eyes. I dive in and never come out.

empty baggage claim:
one heart alone departing
where two had arrived

National Treasure

Mike — Sat, 24 Jan 2009 19:44:28 +0000

It’s been a while since I posted any Poetry Challenge related material, but I thought I’d quickly post one I actually received and wrote a while ago, but never got around do posting. This was poetry challenge number five and it was sent by my friend Frank:

“Here’s a challenge-

Panda attack in Beijing

‘The panda is a national treasure, and I love and respect [him], so I didn’t fight back,’ Zhang said. ‘The panda didn’t let go until it chewed up my leg and its mouth was dripping with my blood.’”

Well, at first this just made me laugh and then I looked it up. It turns out this panda (named Gu Gu) is something of a bully and has attacked more than one person. More details can be found here including this wonderful gem:

“A year earlier, state media reported that a drunken tourist tried to hug the panda, who bit him. In an odd twist, the tourist reportedly bit back.”

Anyway, I didn’t have a lot of time to do the challenge so I just did a quick humorous (hopefully) haiku. I hope you enjoy it.

National Treasure
by M.J. Adams

national treasure –
the leg loving panda and
his blood-stained muzzle

Weak Dawn

Mike — Sat, 10 Jan 2009 15:06:10 +0000

She shuffles around the room in her slippers. As I wake, she glances over at me. I’m sprawled out in the bed like a magnificent stretched lion, wearing all of the pillows as my mane. She tells me it’s cold outside, which doesn’t really surprise me. It’s winter. I’m not really clear in the head as she mentions the frost. Her words take a few minutes to register, slowly worming their way through the silky filter of sleep. I lift my heavy head. It’s like a rusted iron cage in the morning, which always scares me. Is this what it is like to be old and senile? Will my head be this heavy and dull? As I look out the window, my worries scatter and the moment seizes me.

weak dawn –
the frosted treetops stirred
by hungry blackbirds

Empty Coffee Shop

Mike — Wed, 07 Jan 2009 20:08:38 +0000

Empty Coffee Shop by M.J. Adams empty coffee shop winter’s dim light reaching through the frosty window Related posts:Scent of recent rain Grasping the soil The Meeting Related posts:

It Snowed Today

Mike — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 20:57:44 +0000

I decided to write a poem of my own accord, since I haven’t really been getting any suggestions for my Poetry Challenge. It snowed a bit last night and some on and off today and so I wrote a poem about it. It’s an iambic pentameter poem with a rhyme pattern of ababcdcdefef and I tried playing with alternating feminine/masculine endings. I hope it works for you.

For those who aren’t into poetry and don’t know, iambic verse is read in a sort of ti-tum-ti-tum way. In this case I’d given the odd numbered verses feminine endings (start on ti and end on ti) and the even numbered verses masculine endings (start on ti and end on tum) so if you read it out loud and don’t go too quickly, you should be able to pick up the flow.

It Snowed Today
by M.J. Adams

It snowed today, but not enough to move me
The ground is barely dusted with a hint
Of white, like some depressing winter movie
The traffic builds and dulls the new year’s glint

It snowed today, with quiet and calm, so softly,
And trepidation learned from summer’s wrath
A sudden wind gives all to try to loft me
I leave the road and find a sheltered path

It snowed today, with ice and wind to follow
Alone I walk in search of something true
Though I can’t find the sun, the light, Apollo,
Much more I find arriving home to you

Three in the morning

Mike — Sun, 28 Dec 2008 14:31:09 +0000

Three in the morning by M.J. Adams three in the morning – navigating the darkness by the creaking stairs Related posts:Frigid Morning Walk The Dream How long is the night Related posts:

Cat

Mike — Thu, 25 Dec 2008 21:27:41 +0000

I was talking to my Mom last night about my Poetry Challenge project, and she gave me one. She said:

“How about one about cats?”

So here is my poem about cats. I’ve decided that I’m going to occasionally integrate my photography and my poetry. Some people aren’t very excited about poetry so maybe this will engage them a little better. This poem is again a Japanese form. I’m still studying the English stuff. I just want to get a bit better at it before I humiliate myself. This form is called a Tanka and traditionally has a 5-7-5-7-7 pattern, though in modern Tanka as in Haiku, that is no longer always the case. Tanka is not something I’ve done before, so this is still a challenge for me. I hope I’ve got it at least somewhere near what it is meant to be. I decided to put this one on a photo I took of Truffle, one of our cats. I suppose you could call it a sort of photographic Haiga. Obviously no great skill was required in this case, and my mastery of Zen, well – what mastery? Anyway, enjoy.

Cat
by M.J. Adams

the midmorning sun
shines through the vertical blinds
onto the table
I fail to attract your gaze
you ignore me as always