every mourning

every morning
before facing the brutality of the sun
i go down into the basement
where i pull aside the heavy stone lid
and lean out over that dark abyss.
it takes less and less
for that disgust to wash over me.
what must i leave in there, before
i need come to that pit no more?



the final day of GloPoWriMo.  Prompt is inspired by Borges.

Beyond the Gate

my father waits for me
just beyond the gate
his arm reaching through as far as he can
his voice calling me
his example haunting me
me, trying to deny him
though my every step
brings me closer
to that gate
to my fate


These words are only shadows

At each corner there hangs a great light, a signal beacon telling us to stay or go, or slow.  Their shadows ebb and flow instantly, endlessly.  As if, at each turn of life, some great work of art were present, to illuminate with it’s beauty the simple choices that so often confound.  There are twenty six lamps in my house, one is always on.  All the other shadows come, and go. They are all mere shadows themselves, of that greatest shadow.  That which lays patiently at the feet of all, and lingers behind even the greatest joy.
These marks on this page are only a shadow of ideas 

Low spring light raking
 Like atomic ghosts on brick 
walls, vaporized souls

A haibun for the prompt at dVerse