the apple tree
and birds drop like windfall
fruit, ripened in tints of feather.
The rabbit shakes
restless in his fur
not knowing why he freezes
in the hawk's shadow.
Walking in the foam
every color is cooled
from a world that prefers hot red;
for one night, guns are silent.
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Flash Fiction 55 Plus
This month, Kerry chooses Zen for the plus--not much of a Zen mind or beginners mind in this skull, but I've written anyway.
Image: Nightvision, copyright joyannjones 2014
A new favorite. The end is rather shocking but in fact makes the whole poem hang together, and brings out a kind of loss or violence in what had initially sounded so peaceful but the incipient violence creeps in as it moves along from windfall to hawk to gun. The moonlit foam is just beautiful--the fruit feather--everything is just wonderful--ReplyDelete
Beautiful details. I don't know much from Zen--but I think buddhism is rather accepting and would not have to be so accepting to find this a great poem. k.
Thanks, k. I also know nothing from Zen, despite someone trying very hard to indoctrinate me once--but I did read a lot about it at one time, and to me it is about how the unstated says more than the stated, that everything is shaded with a different meaning than the obvious, yet is keyed by the obvious----or something! Anyway, many thanks for the attention to detail, and as always, the kind words.Delete
To me what combines your 3 pieces, is a frozen moment. To focus on that single moment before the hawk strikes, or before the guns starts shooting again is to me very zen like, almost like the sound of the frog in the old pond.ReplyDelete
"Foam of moonlight" so lovely!ReplyDelete
This is a wonderful poem - and photo. I like your blog, it is so beautifully done.ReplyDelete
I like the rabbit not knowing why the hawk's shadow makes him freeze.ReplyDelete
This is such a crystalline moment, captured in words: the rabbit frozen in hope the hawk flies on, a world holds its breath, hoping there will be no sounds from the guns.ReplyDelete
Absolutely stunning images painted here in this beautiful piece :DReplyDelete
"ripened in tints of feather" = breathtaking. This is a gorgeous piece.ReplyDelete
Not that the night doesn't kill, but the absence of the violent spectra affords a desaturated sort of peace, chillin' if only because its free of human predation and death. It ain't Kansas, but it ain't Baltimore, either.ReplyDelete
Oh my...love this, especially your ending. We are a world it seems ruled by gunfire.ReplyDelete
Beautiful. And a quiet punchline which nevertheless reverberates.ReplyDelete
"tints of feather"ReplyDelete
i'd kill to write that line. or die. looks like I'll be half right, anyways ~
Your closing brought surprise and intrigue...nice pen, Hedge!ReplyDelete
There's a perfect hushed atmosphere in this, in both sound and color.ReplyDelete
The line break between the third and fourth line is so, so good. Love this all the way through, Hedge.ReplyDelete
That end touches bone, Hedge. That burst of red, cleaned by pure silence... such a song.ReplyDelete
It reads like a prayer of presence to nature leading to the possibility of peace. May it be so.ReplyDelete