Poetry ~ Waka
Late in the night, after her shift she walked through the bush, her shortcut to the Métro. As she stepped onto the deserted street she could not help but notice a huge light beam down at her. She looked up and saw it smile at her. She stood moments in awe, enthralled by the magnificence of its beauty. Surely this was a sign…a blessing for her week.
Showered with grace
moonbeams ignite lone path
echoes a mantra
© Tournesol ’15
She follows the inspector like a mid-day shadow. He scratches on his notepad, silently walking the perimeter of the weather-beaten house. It leans more towards the river now. She sighs with a heavy heart, not realizing how time and weather has bent the ancestral abode.
weighed memories
sagging shoulders slope
weathered house bows
by the bank
feeder swings on rusted wire
lives perch
© Tournesol ’15
Written for Carp Diem “Weatherbeaten” meme
Y is for yesterday like yesteryear, the past. Such a word brings up so many different meanings. You walk into the office ready for that meeting you had been prepping for the past three weeks; the administrative assistance looks at you wide-eyed when you ask which room was reserved for said meeting. Stammering somewhat, she tells you it was “yesterday”…palm to forehead you jammed it so hard you are left with a red mark for a few hours and a splitting headache.
Poets and writers use this word with such passion; we do too especially if we are mourning a lost love, we feel pain and sadness at first. Later, hopefully, we can reminisce of sweet memories of yesterday’s precious moments.
And one cannot …EVER…forget the first loves of your youth…
(tanka)
Ah pure innocence!
yesterday, was such a fool
butterfly wings
loving you with heart and soul
like no…
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123rt.com bowling pins under cloudy sky
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!! She cowered and ran into her grandmother’s bedroom and dives under a pillow to block the rumble of the thunder. Her grandmother was counting the seconds between each lightening and each clap of thunder to gauge the distance of each lightning.
“N’aie-pas peur, ma belle poule aux oeufs d’or; les éclairs sont loins…il n’y a pas de danger. ” Her grandmother was looking out the window in the veranda and called her grand-daughter to come see. She told her a story that changed her outlook on thunder forever.
“When GrandPapa died last year, I had no money to support myself and so he found a way up in heaven to raise money for me. He joined the heavenly bowling league and plays for money. When you hear the thunder those are the bowling pins you hear and when you hear that huge thunderclap just a few minutes ago, well, that is a strike so I will be getting a nice fat pension this month! ”
Flash of lightning
rumble of the thunderbolt
blessing from heaven
© Tournesol ’15
Carpe Diem Special, Kala Ramesh’s fifth haiku “thunderclap”
thunderclap
the darkening sky splits
into liquid night
© Kala Ramesh
*******
hot summer day
battle between thunder and lightning
ah! cool summer rain
© Chèvrefeuille
Since she was a young child she would often whisper a short prayer on her way to school such as The Lord’s Prayer with the image of her grandfather in her mind’s eye and this practice continued as an adult on her way to work. In the past year she has been chanting her personal mantra with the image of Amma; sometimes her grandmother’s and mother’s images seem to slip in without her control.
Now she simply begins her mantra with the image of Amma and if her grandmother and mother want to slip in, she just goes with the flow. It is a wonderful way to start her day at work. In many ways she feels protected from some of the pain and suffering of her daily work.
scans the heavens
chanting her mantra
filled with devotion
filled with devotion
three mothers protect her
love bursts in tears
(c) Tournesol ’15
Early in the morning, raindrops on fresh cut grass tickled her feet. She stopped a moment to listen to her friends chirp ‘bon matin’. Spade in one hand, box of marigolds in the other, she reached her vegetable garden. Kneeling at the edge, she set the spade aside. No need for metal when the earth was still loose and wet. Digging bare hands in the rich soil, the feel on her fingers made her feel alive; the earthy scents of soil, clay and last night’s drizzle awakened her sense of being. She planted the marigolds outlining the entire garden and got a whiff of the pungent, musky scent, pleasing to humans yet, repugnant to insects.
morning drizzle
oozes pleasant scents
petrichor
alluring scents,
insects run away
marigolds
© Tournesol ’15
CP Time Machine, ‘perfume’
As soon as the alarm went off, she jumped out of bed and pulled the curtain in her bedroom.
“Oh boy! she said, “The snow has melted everywhere!”
She shuffles towards the kitchen, screaming, “MAMA!!, can I wear my new Easter shoes to school to day…pretty please!!”
Her mother is packing her daughter’s lunch and turns her head towards the kitchen window.
“Well love, you know the earth is still frozen, it may be too cold…I don’t know…” her voice trails as she looks at the thermometer outside by the window sill.”
Ah Mama, puleeeze, I promise to wear my thick tights. Come on, Mama, it skips better in shoes,” she whines preparing to pout, “I’m brining my skipping rope to school for recess…pretty please!!” she raises her baby blues pleading to her mother…
“Oh, alright”, her heart melts at those blue liquid eyes.
April skies beckon
walking in her brand new shoes
blossoms await
© Tournesol ’15
Photo actually taken at five in the afternoon April 16, 2015.
Le “cordonier mal chaussé” is often what her peers call her teasingly. When a young person calls her crisis line and is having a panic attack, she asks him to put one hand on his belly, then walks him through mindful breathing and eventually a guided imagery. Breathing in, the belly inflates like a balloon, breathing out, the belly flattens.
So many youths and adults tend to label themselves as suffering from some form of anxiety; however, there are also many youths who hear this “term” but have not been properly diagnosed. Living in a society of information overload it is no wonder many practice “googlism” as they surf the internet.
A young person may call for help with anxiety. The counsellor shakes her head when the youth answers her question to “Where did you get that diagnosis?” and it is “Oh, I googled it.” She shakes her head in dismay as she listens to the youth through her earpiece.
This counsellor, too must learn to practice some form of mindful breathing in order to find balance in her life. She chants daily on her walks or when she is upset; and so many times when her mind won’t shut off and slowly it reduces her breathing and she is able to finally be in control of her breath.
Sitting in a park or garden, she connects with an inner peace hearing only her breath and faint chirps. Her ultimate reward is sitting on the rooftop witnessing that giant golden star slip beneath the horizon and she is thankful to be alive and be part of this universe.
final brush strokes
transform hues on canvas
last slow breath
last slow breath
at one with the heavens
life’s cycle
© Tournesol ’15
Carpe Diem “Pranayana – Controlled breath”
Le “cordonier mal chaussé” literal translation, shoemaker with bad shoes, meaning not practicing what one preaches.
Living in solitude, eating lightly, controlling the thought, word, and deed; ever absorbed in yoga of meditation, and taking refuge in detachment. Bhagavad Gita
I used to travel by train, bus or car Montreal to Toronto which was about a 5 hour trip; I kept counting how many kilometers I had left to get to my destination. Now I rather take the train and enjoy the scenery…I try to stay awake to enjoy sites I missed all those years when I was in a hurry. That vast Lake Ontario, the farmlands, trees and so many quaint towns we pass along the way now capture my attention. No longer am I attached to time and destination…the journey is part of the trip.
caterpillar rests
embracing tranquility
butterfly flutters
(c) Tournesol ’15
This was inspired by a Choka I wrote previously, here, when contemplating on the wren.
The woman would sit on the cold concrete during her fifteen minute break. She was wrapped in woolen coat, toque and scarf, shielded by cement pillars. That cold winter, ten years ago, sat in mourning contemplation by a bed of frozen dirt, was once a garden. Twelve months went by as she sat day by day, accompanied by her faithful wren.
bereft, she sits
wren pecks on frozen soil,
a sacred visit
© Tournesol ’15
Tournesol dans un Jardin 
