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  • Poetry One ~ Japan

    Poetry One

    T S Brock

    We had been living in Tokyo, but we ventured to other countries 2 or 3 times a year… Money was good… In Japan, near Tokyo, every chance that chance gave us… Well… We often wandered around the country sides of Japan, places not far from our home, but far enough to experience the deeper culture. So I asked my wife to take this photo of an abandoned Toyota… There were fireflies at night and elusive mosquitoes… But the wonder, the natural wonder was the symphony of cicadas making magical sounds all around us, hypnotizing our minds into sleep…

    Note: Links to other poetry pages below…

    Poetry Two ~ Dark Poets

    Poetry Three ~ Reconciliation

    Poetry Four ~ Our Universe

    Poetry Five ~ Longing

    Poetry Six ~ Love

    Poem 1 Cicadas

    Sounds of summer

    no one complains

    don’t ask why

    their rhythms

    bother only

    the most sensitive minds

    They relieve our heat

    and related pains

    while their quiet

    roaring bells

    set us to relax

    as decibels

    slip deeply

    like tranquil streams

    into our ancient minds

    1000 species across the world

    living in the earth

    as I’m told

    emerging in luster

    teen-aged and flustered

    What brilliant energy

    do they possess?

    Their mystique has been

    worshipped, feared

    cooked and eaten

    studied and collected

    filed and defeated

    On my balcony

    my ears are captured

    exquisite sounds

    and rhythms

    never before heard

    These are the sounds

    of the cicada in mass

    presenting their

    symphonies

    in harmonious unison

    How many million changes

    Does it take to make

    such a miraculous evolution

    And now, my wife calls me

    And now, I will fall asleep

    to the sounds of the Cicada

    And I will dream

    Poem 2 Communication

    (walking from above)

    I watched a stream

    and became aware

    of how music began

    water flows across stones

    beyond streams

    waves meet sand

    rain sounds on every object

    rain meets our bodies

    passes through our minds

    and makes a home in our hearts

    beating and pulse

    the rhythm of life

    birds and other animals

    making orchestral sounds

    across the expanse of planet

    creating melodies

    calling to each other

    for one reason or another

    preserving their space

    In their competitive place

    beasts across forests

    jungle and plain

    signaled intention

    from pleasure and pain

    sounds that remain

    in our history

    no mystery

    the musical tones of life

    human community

    watching carefully

    spirited language

    borrowing thoughtlessly

    In clumsy gestures and expressions

    from those animals

    both friend and foe

    countless ages

    of development

    evolved our tongues and ears

    for speech

    when we were finally able

    to take care of each other

    and accomplish

    the miracle of

    Communication

    Poem 3 Winter Skating

    Preface ~

    “All the mischief of young people
    trying to be in love
    While parents hollered
    for their children to come home
    them slogging with skates
    frozen to their love-lorn feet 

    miracles of endurance”

    Story ~

    They made their way

    slow and desperate

    to the ramshackle cabin

    at the corner of the ice field

    to retrieve their worn-down and

    half-frozen shoes

    laughing in pain

    amid the smoke of

    a warm smoldering fire

    burning in an antique barrel

    stove squat center in the

    shack among walls laden

    with poetry, graffiti

    proposals of love and hate

    phone numbers and obscenities

    when the old stove finally

    lost its heat

    the pond became

    an oasis of moonlit

    silence

    dreams descended

    then we embraced

    and the universe folded

    into our heaven-like bodies

    https://www.lang-works.com/0-Pompei-07/index.html

    Poem 4 Angels

    Even Einstein
    would agree
    semantics aside
    spirits could glide
    from sea to sea

    Of course
    winged benefactors
    aren’t probable
    which is a difference
    of mystery

    Seems there’s
    something looking down
    giving us a frown
    then waving a wand

    trying to cast
    a magic dream
    like an office
    of the lost and found
    that has always
    been empty

    It could be
    a four-leaf
    clover
    that no one’s
    looking over

    the Universe
    is too wide
    for me to decide

    religions to me
    evolved in the sea
    and are corrupted
    As they emerge

    On the shores
    of restless minds
    and the lesser
    of humankind
    despite that…
    the angel in my mind
    comes and goes
    endlessly upon

    ideas and empathy

    Poem 5 Voices

    Voices falling from stars
    and Venus and Mars
    floating like snowflakes
    and landing on warm lakes

    The gentle fall breeze
    brings the tones
    to grace

    solitude
    or shared
    the tones move
    in our minds
    and make our daily work
    the music of heaven

    End of Poetry Group One

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    Poetry Two ~ Dark Poets

    Poetry Three ~ Reconcile with the Morning

    Poetry Four ~ Our Universe

    Poetry Five ~ Longing

    Poetry Six ~ Love

  • Bee and Jo

    “Upon the Rubble of Life begins more rubble.” T.S. Brock

    Bee was a recycler from Seoul, South Korea. In the West, he would be equivalent to the scavenger of aluminum cans and the like, but here in the wild, wild East, in the sing song post-war burnt-out prairies of his previous hometown, practically everything short of edible food was carried off to recycling centers, centers that sunk into the urban landscape like bad poetry.

    Splintered metallic jeeps, their parts wrapped ugly and unidentifiable were stacked up in absurd but slightly elegant piles. Artwork by accident at best. They awaited grumbling trucks with gigantic holds. The stationary loader had mantis-like hydraulic grips. It ripped into the sky to feed rusty appliances, car parts and mangled bullet-ridden objects into the trucks’ empty metal pits. One imagines hungry dinosaurs. Crash! The resisting metallic objects dropped into the beds of the shaking monstrous trucks. Such crashing, resounding elegance. Such delicate display of catastrophe. Such a waste of time and life.

    Jo befriended Bee because Bee allowed it and it benefited his empty heart. Members of the community would have to measure the plusses and minuses of a relationship between them. Truth be told, Bee was South Korean but had no cares regarding his community. In this way, he was independent. But Jo, she was North Korean and she was sensitive and wounded. Perhaps her pains were greater than his and this made him empathetic. She had survived the war and somehow made it south…maybe she was a miracle.

    “Bee… Can I make lunch now?”

    “Why do you ask me? You are not my servant.  I’m Bee… Just a normal man Ha!”

    “No… You’re Bee… Expert in Junk. What’s that name mean anyway?”

    “Bees make honey Ha! No thanks!”

    “Ah… What?”

    “It means “No thanks!”

    “Why are you called “Jo”?

    “Ji eye Jo gave me the name.”

    “Who the hell?”

    “Yah, who the hell…”

    “Who the hell gives us theeese cans of meat and… phoey.”

    “I’m tired of this canned food… Jo… Let’s make a garden!”

    “I know how to do that!” Jo raised her smiling face.

    “Don’t ignore me Jo. I want you to be my partner.”

    “Yes Bee. We will be partners and make a large garden”.

    “Demmit! We will make a wonderful life.”

    Jo appeared exhausted but happy. She was unbathed but beautiful.

    “So let’s have lunch…” They looked deeply into one another.

    Then they had lunch.

  • The Jackhammer

    The Jackhammer

    The jackhammer began its insane choppy drone at eight am on Sunday morning. What a relief. On Saturday, it was seven am. Now coffee. Now tolerance. And this is the ‘Land of the Morning Calm’. I beg to differ. This is the “Land of the Painful Hangover”.

    But this distinction does not belong to Korea alone. All across the world people drink in social places or alone or on cruise ships, and even in prisons. Well, as nature demands, we wake up with nausea and odd forms of headache and anxiety. Pardon the cliche: “Pay the fiddler.”

    But the jackhammers (so much concrete to crush) and the barkers selling goods on bongo pick-up trucks, well, they get up quite early in the morning, and they multiply the deleterious effects exponentially. Thus jackhammers and bongos are to be avoided by most drinking folk.

    Then came Monday. Along came the jackhammers at 6:43 am. At 6:44, I heard a muffled cry. I looked at my bed table clock and it was 6:45. No jackhammer.

    I fell on the floor and spilled an open bottle of water. Picked myself up and looked out the window. I saw a flash. Black like silk in rain. I Shook my head and went back to bed. Waiting for the cacophony.

    Nothing. And in seconds there was the humming of cicadas in the early summer morning. Bewildered, I got up and made coffee. Often looking out my window.

    The next day, Tuesday, nothing woke me up. In fact, I was late for work. And I was happy. Since this day, at least in my neighborhood, this day had been a “Land of Morning Calm”. No jackhammers, no barkers, only the sweet sounds of bird songs, light traffic, and cicadas.

    But I’m sure the jackhammers and morning barkers in bongo trucks will return. I only hope the mysterious figure will return as well. Until then, all is like a ship on calm water in an uncharted sea. What winds will come to soothe or ruin our wonderful mornings. No one knows.

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