You see, there just isn’t enough kindness
Stanley M Noah
in the world.
Unrelenting
the cherry blossoms settled in
our path, richly blown. Mount
Fuji is now a peaceful pyramid.
Redundant
are the seasons. And nights fall
against the rising sun. Landscapes
are full of life with millions of
burial grounds.
We follow maps made of musical
butterflies with yellow notes and
drums; and we jump from cliffs like
salmon swimming.
In abstract plazas you find yourself
in a crowd. It has one personality,
oblivious as a leader without an
audience.
Deafening are our generations like
rows of rice we grow. We sweat
in silence. A bowl of soup is the
message
of calmness you try to hold but burns
like an old haunted rose. You
see, we are just fumblers.
