Go Where?

Once again, it is Quadrille Monday , and we are Going… Going… Gone Poeming. This is also for FOWC: Particular.

Such a warm and sunny day,
Yet stuck at home
With nowhere in particular to go,
What to do with this time, but bide?
Where is life’s map
I was supposed to follow?
I dropped it long ago,
Now we’ve all walked farther away.

Also, I have really fallen off the wagon for Paula’s February Love Me challenge, but here is what I am loving today: the sun, especially getting to, finally, read outside again in my back  yard. It had been a while. 

Dizzy

Quickly time passes; seconds run
To minutes, years from hours, days
And on and on it goes, always
Ticking off moments one by one.

At what young age had I begun
To be aware of how it whirls
So dizzily, turning that girl
Into a woman? Barely born
And so soon learning then to mourn —
Yet still rejoicing over pearls.

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Ash Wednesday

For Frank’s current haikai challenge, I wrote a haibun about Ash Wednesday.

The ashes that are used to mark the foreheads of the faithful, as a sign of repentance, grief yet hope, are the ashes from the burnt palm branches from the previous year’s Palm Sunday. Since Palm Sunday was cancelled for the public last Lent, I wonder which branches were burned. They were burned along with the hope of certain earthly pleasures — a reminder that this was never meant to be anyone’s true home.

Symbol-filled ashes:
Journey to destination
Because life is Lent

Me, on Ash Wednesday 2017

Ghazal: Folly

After posting the paint-chip ghazal earlier today, I remembered this one, written about a month ago, on January 16, 2021.

clear wine glass on black table
Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

Forgive my folly, veritable wells of it!
Let it be written down, say not farewell to it!

Before its end, all pens would use their ink;
Were I given all time, I could not tell of it.

See how the heart makes passion come in waves —
Behold the ocean deep, the ebb and swell of it!

Even if you are not my Beatrice,
Could you not be my Virgil for the hell of it?

Now all that’s left are roses pressed in books:
One such sweet scent — this writer brings to life the smell of it.