Poetry ~ Waka
Inspired by Ese’s haiku at CDHK
inevitable
the dance of a falling leaf
with a snowflake
***************
first snowfall
finally
sorrows veiled
first snowfall
leaves,
grief to rest
finally
lifts weight of shadows
balance restored
veiled sorrows
giddiness of snowflakes
pretence of joy
© Tournesol ’15
Ils avaient voyagé pendant deux jours et une nuit; la montée devenait de plus en plus téméraire. Ils se sont arrêtés dans les petits villages situés au long du chemin pour se reposer. En causant avec les villageois ils leurs demandaient conseils sur leur excursion jusqu’à l’Himalaya.
Un vieil homme était assis, les jambes croisées dans un petit cachot derrière le loge où ils ont été pour la nuit; il semblait en transe, endormi et rêvait peut-être. Les voyageurs ont été émus par le sourire éthéré sur les lèvres du vieillard.
l’intermède de l’ombre
quasi portée de la main
la danse des étoiles
© Tournesol ’15
running late,
circles the Ovoo just once,
crossing herself
© Tournesol ’15/11/20
Five years already on this blog. How time has changed. It started as a “thinking out loud” blog, sometimes getting on my soapbox and that was why I started Stop the Stigma. I moved on to short stories, then poetry all under the name “Cher Shares” and now it is Tournesol dans un Jardin with only Waka (Japanese poetry forms) which I grown to not only enjoy writing but has helped me on many spiritual levels and grieving my mom.
Up until two years ago, I posted maybe once a month and now I try to post daily…so it may be five years but it really feels more like two since I started taking this more seriously.
Thanks to followers who have been patient with all my transformations like someone who changes hair style often.
Cheryl-Lynn aka Tournesol
They had traveled for two days and one night, always climbing. They stopped in small villages along the way to rest a bit, talk with villagers and ask them advice on their journey up the Himalayas. An elderly man sat crossed legged in his tiny hut behind the cabin where they were lodged for the night. He seemed in a trance, sleeping and dreaming perhaps. The travelers were touched by the old man’s faint smile on his lips.
twilight’s first act,
almost close enough to touch
dancing stars
© Tournesol’15/11/20
I struggled with the haiku here are other drafts:
night draws its curtains
auspicious coryphée
stellar performance
or
night draws its curtains
coryphée is nigh
stellar ballet
or
twilight’s first act,
almost close enough to touch
dancing stars
or
night draws its curtains
auspicious coryphée
stellar ballet
Walking home last night she sees grey swirls elevated near the curb as she crosses the street. The first frozen puddle she has noticed in the city, autumn’s last month flirting with winter. She knows the days are numbered now. Leading towards the end of this season sometimes feels like walking towards a grave.
fallen to their death
leaves spread season’s quilt
tucking in the earth
Although logic knows the earth is not dead but asleep…napping for a spell, until spring, the dark of day lacking sunshine makes us feel this way on this cold day of November. Not only does nature seem somnolent but the sun as well, turning in so early.
sun bids farewell
yet, it’s only teatime!
autumn’s new soirée
No longer can one dine in the evening whilst they admire art displays in the sky. (sigh!) The artist too, has turned in earlier, skipping dinner and off to bed.
painting moods in blues
in the darkest hour
cleansing of new dawn
One can sometimes hear
In the darkest hour
awe celestial notes
message from the heavens,
still, she is not clear…
Nature has its mysteries, that she does not know; makes it all the more appealing, savouring the unknown.
whispers in her ear
playing sanguine notes
lighting up her soul
© Tournesol ’15
I think I may have gotten carried away here with poetic prose and turned a few sentences into haiku and tanka. I am still categorizing this as a haibun.
whispering
such a raspy voice,
tickles her ear
© Tournesol ’15
Carpe Diem Haiku Writing Techniques – as is above, as is below
This was inspired by Ese’s “in the darkest hour”
in the darkest hour
wishing upon the morning star
just like years ago
© Ese of Ese’s Voice
*************
in the darkest hour
melancholy calls –‘til dawn
chases it away
in the darkest hour
whispering rhymes
playing into prayers
melancholy calls – ‘til dawn
softly warms the heart
morning beckons hope
chases it away
darkness runs not far,
playing hide and seek
© Tournesol’15
Sitting at the picnic table near the chip wagon, she sprinkled vinegar and salt on her fries. Taking that first bite of her fry was delightful. Another bite and she winced at the slight burning sensation on her lip. Salt can do that but no matter how unhealthy they say it is, she could not go without salt on French fries.
She remembered when she was a child playing kick the can with friends in the summer. Her mom would call her in when it got dark and she was all sweaty. She loved the taste of salt on her arm.
chaleur torride
sueur luisante
goût d’été
sweltering heat
sweat glistens
taste of summer
They met on the beach. It felt so natural. They walked hand in hand as the sun was slowly dipping in the horizon. The tide was out. How delicious to feel the cool sand between their toes as they walked what seemed, forever.
taste of sunset,
waves roll in softly,
salt on her lips
© Tournesol ’15
She brushes her hair with her brush, the one with the ivory handle, Papa brought her on his last trip. Staring into the mirror she makes faces like she did when she was a child. How she loved playing this game with Papa. They would take turns making faces and the other had to guess who or what they were imitating. For her it was usually insects or birds and that was where she got her nickname. Papa always called her, “Ma petite Luciole, you are the light of my life.”
Five years have passed since then but she wonders if l’avarice has taken over her Papa, she has started to call monsieur l’étourneau. He says he is still looking for that special treasure and when he finds it, he will return for good. She looks out at the birdfeeder near her bedroom window. She huffs out of frustration. That starling is stealing all the seeds again…such a greedy little thing it can be!
She misses her Papa and especially since her Maman died in childbirth three years ago. She still has a difficult time to be happy around la petite Colibri. They nicknamed her after hearing her moan in her bed at night putting herself to sleep. Pauvre petite Colibri, she thought. She had the same emerald green eyes of Maman. How she craved for the long ago laughter of her Papa.
They had all they needed, she reasoned. Her father had inherited le Manoir des Chèvrefeuilles as well as their maison de campagne in Marseilles when maman passed and yet…
She would write to him later this afternoon, she thought, gazing at her silver pheasant feather quill pen. She would ask Colibri to paint a huge soleil to bring Papa back home soon. She sighs and drapes the silk lavender shawl over her bare shoulders and runs down for le petit dejeuner sur la terasse with her Grandmaman and sister.
Searching for scents
no fragrance compares
this lonely silk road
© Tournesol ’15/11/15
Translations:
luciole = firefly
avarice= greed
étourneau = starling
colibri = hummingbird
maison de campgagne = country home
Tournesol dans un Jardin 