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A Vacation Memory

A Vacation Memory

Tahiti, a round green Pacific dot,
is roped by a coastal road
with an opal ocean to one side
and a flourishing forest on the other.

Rounding her continuous curves
in my tiny rented tourist car
I was enjoying the leisurely scenery
and the lulling scent of ocean air,

when suddenly, in front of my car
stretching across the narrow asphalt road
was a proud mother Tahitian duck
followed by her ten tiny trusting ducklings.

With nowhere to safely swerve
nor time to stop
I had no choice but to smash through
the innocent line of newborns.

Under my heavy wheels,
I felt and heard nothing.
Only through my rearview mirror
did I see the flat tiny duck.

Her siblings were marching by, one-by-one
looking down in surprise but waddling on
to keep up with their mother,
who never looked back.

Over time, I’ve wondered
how different was my decision from other juggernauts:
of industry, countries and armies;
of schools, gods and lovers.

— by Sabio Lantz, January 2018


Prompt:   True story, of course. Grace hosts Open Link Night @ dVerse Poets

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Prompt: At FeedBack Poetry, we are now reading Nancy Willard. So, using Jill’s challenge at d’Verse Poets “to write a poem that is a direct reply to another poem.” I have written a playful poem as a reply/imitation of Nancy’s poem. Nancy’s original poem is at the bottom of the post.  Tell me how you think they compare.  Critical thought is coveted.

Some Things Should Never Be Written Down (by Sabio Lantz)

Some things should never be written down:
A raccoon’s greedy sighs
as her crackers dissolve in a stream.

The panting of rampaging squirrels
chasing snow prints in ancient scrolls

The panting of lusty squirrels
chasing prints on tantric scrolls
cluttered with nuts and berries
covering our bed.

The tattoo laughing on your hip
at the dreams you were not suppose to remember.

by Sabio Lantz, January 2018

_____________________________

Some things Should Never Be Written Down
by Nancy Willard (source)

Some things should never be written down.
The lovesick hummingbird’s whistling for love;

the tide of sleep humming toward me
and baited with whispers, [what he said,
what she said], and glad heart
packing its dreams for the trip to morning;

the ring of my mother’s name
when my grandfather called to her three days
after he died, and she with her arms full
of wind-washed laundry

just free from the line.

 

 

 

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Bounce from the Trounce

Bounce from the Trounce

You may be renounced
by even the kindest of Counts
if you can not bounce
from a deserved trounce.

It depends on the towns
in some you get frowns
while others a mere ounce
will get you denounced.
Which if far better than pounced.

— Sabio Lantz, January 2018

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Prompt: This a silly rhyming Quadrille around the word “bounce” for d’Verse Poets. My seventeen year-old son, just recently turned me on to this fine rap poetry about “A Troubadour”, which then became my fuel for poem.

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Cold Feet Memories

Cold Feet Memories

I remember years ago when the Winter Moon bounced brightly off our yard’s deep snow giving the deceptive illusion of warmth and hospitality. Perhaps it was Ying-winter and Ying-Moon mixing to mimic Yang-bright-warmth, but leaving philosophy aside, I decided to make it fun for my kids.

“Here’s my challenge: Run out this door in your bare feet and make it around the chicken pen once!” My kids had a long history of me inventing bizarre fun for them and this seemed like another promising event. So they both ran out in to the white night and for the first few yards laughed uproariously and the snow cracked under their feet. But soon my daughter turned around and ran back afraid of the cold. But my son kept going, behind the trees, around the pen and back. His face was illuminate the whole while and though it had a bit of a grimace, when he finally made it into the house, he broke into a proud smile.

It was a great event, a celebration of ying madness and fun for all. Well, at least that how I remember it. To talk to my 17 year-old son today, it was just another example of his father’s insanity.

Children cavorting
on luminous mind layers
cracking yin-yang ice

— by Sabio Lantz, January 2018


Prompt: d’Verse poets asks for a haibun on the winter moon

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Splatter!

Splatter!

1.
Ice pillars crash
after centuries of frozen
unchallenged certainty

Cliffs of granite crack
as Lava Laughs
at their complacency.

2.
As ducks fly South
over lush fields,
do they think,
“How beautiful the Path I’ve chosen!”

3.
I now understand
why boiling pots
splatter!

— by Sabio Lantz

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My First Japanese Birthday

japanese blood typeMy First Japanese Birthday

I was alone in a foreign land,
didn’t speak the language yet,
just broke up with a girlfriend
and it was getting dark.

Not big on self-pity,
I took myself to a local bar,
though that is usually a recipe
for a further sense of isolation.

Sipping some beer by myself,
I watched one of the bar’s TV screens,
playing a poorly translated American movie
but the subtitles kept me busy.

Next to me was a nervous, fidgety fellow
who finally got up the courage,
to practice his hard won English, saying,
“Ah, hello. What is your blood-type?”

My blood type?
Geez, who just sat next to me?
A Japanese fantasy vampire club enthusiast?
Someone looking for an organ donor?

Suddenly I saw vampire teeth appear on the bar tender,
and the guy to the other side of me had a knife,
and all the black-haired, brown-eyed people in the bar
knew I was finished.

But, rather than indulge my delusion further,
and be cause I was lonely, I told him, “A+”
and then learned that the Japanese divided the world
into four personality types: A, B, O and AB

Blood types, you see, are for Japanese
like Astrological signs are for silly Americans,
or your favorite soccer team for Brits.
And used as a started for conversations.

So we broke our dialogue barrier,
and shared our blood types.
Two lonely guys stop seeing each other
as foreigners, because we had blood in common.

— by Sabio Lantz, December 2017


Prompt: Open Link Night at d’Verse Poets.  May your shared superstitions bridge your loneliness in the coming month.

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Two Guys Meet Over a Finger

20160522_091855Two Guys Meet Over a Finger

“Hey you! Come over here and help me,” I heard the stranger yell. He was fishing from the lake shore where I had just pulled up my kayak. “Why? What’s wrong?” I said, not being one to jump on command to complete strangers. “I’ve got a hook in my finger!” he replied with a bit of a whimper in his voice, softening his initial order.

Well, he was pleasantly surprised to find out that I was a medical provider. The hook was deep in his finger. I explained that the best option was to push hook through the other side of his finger and then clip it off. He agreed and fortunately he had wire cutters in his fishing kit.

Tough guy. I told him to get a tetanus shot and how to look for signs of infection. Then we snapped a humorous picture of our serendipitous meeting that day.

fish in the bucket
worms squirming in the bait box
surprising metal!

— by Sabio Lantz, December 2017

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Prompt:  Haibun challenge @ d’Verse Poets, that is <200 word  prose followed by a Haiku.  From Wikipedia: “Traditional haibun typically took the form of a short description of a place, person or object, or a diary of a journey or other series of events in the poet’s life.”  And so, I prefer non-fiction which, for me, is usually far more interesting than fiction.

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