Did you hear the haiku when they knocked?




Dreams.  Wistful marigold petals

strewn on the holy waters
of sleep.

Men at my door, their heels

are cracked with long journeys
over dusty days;

they wash at the tap outside,

as they clean up their feet emerge,
unscarred;

turn out just ordinary men

glad of a meal, and a place
to sleep.

Think nothing of it, I’m not

searching prophets
to solve all my puzzles;

they leave, rested; and later, there are

lotus marks leading
from my door.

When you wake in the morning

you can’t know what poems
the day shrugs off;

what marigold petal, which jasmine

or lotus shred falls
by your gate.

I looked for nailscars but got

lotusprints facing away
from my door.

They knew me for what I am.

Or maybe they’re men
with oddly scarred soles.

Facts can’t be changed by poems and

no rhymes intervene in their
cadence.

I heard no haikus on the breeze

when they knocked, I hear none still,
nothing

except blankness made into

the lilt of the still lake where
no-one walks

but I now have doorsills, mud

in lotus patterns till
the next rains come

as though I too am a pilgrim,

a torn petal on holy
waters.

Along the hard crusts of love

The fragile white perfumed blossoms
collapse into the winds with a sigh
along the hard crusts of love, the crumbs
of life thrown out into the sun to dry

And shall I pick them up one by one?

- the leavings of tiny scented flowers
dried up seconds left out in the sun
and heap and pat them into hours.

I’ve breathed enough, deeply inhaled

the wind, the heat of midday light,
faint scents of dusts as they sailed
slowly into my line of sight.

I’m glad they came, but the flowers are shed;

the sun and wind have dried up things
and all that remains is half chewed bread
and petals fallen into the evenings.

I’m glad you came, but I won’t wait

somewhere on the outer fringe
of seasons, eaves-dropping on a raging debate
on the irreversibility of change.