“The Barn” (reprise)

(originally posted 11/12/2021)

“The Barn”
© 2013 by Michael L. Utley

On weed-strewn verge of fallow field
The barn still stands, a silent revenant
Of ages past, a mournful sentiment
Amid the dying elms concealed

Its boards the hue of ancient bones
The wind has long since scoured paint away
As season after season rendered gray
Once brilliant lively crimson tones

Dead teasel husks caress its skin
A memory of lilac, wild rose
And hollyhock a melancholy prose
No longer whispered in the din

Of bitter zephyrs in the loft
That magnify each sorrow-laden groan
Each pensive sigh and every hopeless moan
Of dreams denied and yearnings scoffed

On cupola atop the roof
The antiquated weather vane points north
In rusted rictus, ever drawing forth
That demon wind on cloven hoof

Inside, the haymow lost to time
Illusory, a phantom from the past
Whose gilded straws have disappeared at last
An unseen grotesque paradigm

The ladder to the loft on high
Clings stubbornly amid the swirling motes
That dance in hellish pace to eldritch notes
The song of death, fey herald’s cry

And from the loft extends the beam
That transits barn so high above wood floor
Above the stack of hay that is no more
And from this, like some ghastly dream

There hangs a rope no longer there
Recast ephemeral by passing years
Whose insubstantial form allays no fears
Whose memory I’m doomed to bear

All silence now, sere winter’s grasp
Has stilled the air, the motes drift in the night
In moonbeams pale, and from the rope drawn tight
About my neck, my dying gasp

Lilts softly in the midnight frost
As it has done each night for years gone by
Eternal recompense to rectify
All that I’ve done, all that I’ve lost

(Author’s note: I debated whether to post this piece for quite a while. Some of the imagery could be considered disturbing, particularly in the last two stanzas. I used the narrator’s suicide as a metaphor for guilt, shame and loss and how those emotions can haunt us for a lifetime. I considered inserting a trigger warning at the beginning and spent several days researching studies and opinions on such tactics, with the results varying widely and no real general consensus met on how to handle sensitive or disturbing material. In the end, I decided against a trigger warning for several reasons, and chose to add this note instead.

If you or someone you know is suicidal, please talk to a healthcare professional, call your local area suicide hot-line or discuss it with a friend or family member. Above all, know you’re not alone. There is help available to get you through this difficult time.)

“Ripples” (reprise)

(originally posted 10/5/2021)

“Ripples”
(c) 2017 by Michael L. Utley

There are no ripples
On this frozen pond
The puk-puk-puk of
The pebble
Skittering on iced skin
Dampened by
Frost-thick air
Breath caught short
In lung-numbed gasps
Silent words
Suspended
In wintry sighs
Eyes pools of
Frigid tear-prisms
Bitter empty gelid rainbows
Where are you

You missed our flight to Tokyo
The cherry blossoms whispered your name
As Fuji, incurious and remote
Gazed white-helmed
At my solitary shadow
My empty hand
Holding more of you
Than my heart could bear
We did not walk
Beneath flicker-flamed
Paper lanterns
On blood-red bridges
Spanning koi ponds
Under the spring moon
The rising sun
Sought to kiss your cheek
But was denied
As I was denied

You missed auroras
Over Iceland
The Arctic colder
In your absence
The night sky draped
In shimmering iridescent
Thought
The emerald musings of some distant god
Snagged in dark desolation
My own thoughts of you
Caught in my own
Desolation

You missed the candent sands
Of Morocco
Capricious zephyrs
Erasing my footprints
In a desert bereft of
Your footprints
We did not dance
In the summer swelter
Beneath date palms
And stars that sought
To light your way
But failed
Your body absent
In my arms
The scent of your hair
A distant memory which
Hot breezes scatter
In the night

You missed our train
To the Rockies
Where larkspur and columbine
Awaited you with open arms
And later mourned in silence
My singular form without you
By my side
We did not hold hands in
Flower-burst mountain meadows
Azure lakes reflected only
My lone countenance
As conifers murmured
Demurely in cool breezes
Wondering if you
Would ever arrive

You missed our drive
Through New England hills
Autumn maple and hemlock
A conflagration burning for you
Yearning for you
The birches and beeches smoldering
In my heart
Red-orange-gold leaves
Suiciding in silent sadness
Loneliness wearing my face
Stalks these woods
You are nowhere to be found

You missed my arrival
In Singapore
The airport a swarm
Of faces
A blur of oceanic humanity
As I searched for one safe harbor
One stormless island
In this storm of chaos
Your face
A lighthouse to guide me home
Your beacon never appearing
No fog horn guiding me safely
Through treacherous surf
Your bottomless brown eyes
Nowhere
Your smile cut roughly from this mural
Missing
A ragged hole where you should be
In my life

Perhaps you were a
Phantom
All along

Puk-puk-puk
No ripples on this frozen pond
Not enough pebbles remain
To last until springtime thaw
One ripple is all I ask
One ripple to finally reach you
I’ll save a pebble
Just in case

“In Time to Come” (reprise)

(originally posted on 10/4/2021)

“In Time to Come”
(c) 2017 by Michael L. Utley

She had that look about her again
Eyes like chips of coruscating amber
Caught in the westering sun
Her over-there gaze snagged
On some distant memory
Like thorn-caught thread
Hands prim and pale
In her denim lap
Amid foxtails and dandelions
And oak shadows

Things move too fast
When they move too slowly
The heat that summer was unbearable
A bludgeon wielded by a chrome sky
Its merciless swath pounding
Everyone everything into submission
We were not spared

I could reach toward her forever
And never touch her
I’ll tell you in time to come, she’d say
Her tired smile dying before
It reached her eyes
Time to come never coming
Never time enough
Time running out

Let’s sit and enjoy the shade, she’d say
The sun slipping languidly
Into oblivion
Her face haloed
In a warm orange aura
My ephemeral love
Ensconced in flames
Flickering
Flickering

Broken pieces of her
Litter the oak-shadowed grass
One touch and she’d shatter
One embrace and she’d be
All over the place
Delicate balance was
The ruse of muses who
Knew nothing of reality
Who knew nothing of
Love and sickness
And the terrible nectar
Of the tainted honeysuckle

Even the birds are quiet

There is no darkness
As black as love
No pit as plumbless
As that filled with regret
Her brown eyes
Smiling and weeping at once
Succumbing to demons
Unknown to me
So much of her slate blank
Her portrait only half-finished
Before the paint dried out
And the canvas rent asunder

Broken pieces of her
Litter the oak-shadowed grass
I used to collect them
Their razor edges
Slicing my hands bloody
Only a few remain
Among the foxtails and dandelions
Her voice only an echo now
I’ll tell you in time to come

“The Cairn”

“The Cairn”
(c) 2023 by Michael L. Utley

a handful of stones
the currency of a hardened heart
cannot purchase a reprieve
from the weight of mountains
upon my soul

scree of memories
who can navigate the slope
of ankle-breaking regrets
the sharpened shale
of the empty slate
where hope
was once etched
and now only
dust remains

we walked that path
through the foothills of yesterday
where everything was evergreen
the eternal evening
redolent of lilac and honeysuckle
and wild rose
and the wan moon
dozed in the lavender sky
and you were there
but you weren’t there
your body in a mountain meadow
and your mind in
a roiling pit of despair

I held your hand
more tightly than I should have
I couldn’t let go
not then
(not now)
but you didn’t seem to mind
your trembling fingers
nested in my palm
like a dying sparrow
losing heat
as you lost opacity

I could see you fading

we walked that path
where the trees thicken
and congregate
and whisper furtively
and the air hangs in tatters
from gnarled, pensive boughs
and you closed your eyes
and hummed an atonal tune
more of a whimper than a song
and I tried to accompany you
but my voice was gone
stone-silent
lungs airless
mind blank
and your strange aria
stirred the moon-dappled patches
on the path
into a kaleidoscope of sorrow
and a smile touched your pale lips
as my heart broke

I held your hand
until it was nothing
but a memory
the sky above
now an empty void
your skin iridescing
in the gloaming
as though tinctured
with fallen stars
and glowing novae
evanescing
your essence diminishing

we walked that path
until I walked alone
your silent song
forever in my mind
an echo among
cold indifferent granite peaks
the sound of emptiness
of a heart in pieces
of a life bereft of solace
a handful of stones
to remind me
that you existed
long ago
and far away

should you ever
pass this way again
look for the cairn
along the path
there you’ll find
what’s left
of my heart

“I’ve Come at Last to Anhedonia”

“I’ve Come at Last to Anhedonia”
(c) 2023 by Michael L. Utley

I’ve come at last to Anhedonia
that bleak and melancholy land
beyond the god-forsaken desert sand
far ‘cross the sea of memories
where sunlight fades and none has e’er returned

the forests filled with stunted things
that in the shadows furtive lurk
rise forth from mires amid the murk
of blackened loam and caustic springs

and yellowed grasses’ brittle bones
that slough and sigh in bitter breeze
a desiccated meadow’s wheeze
a mournful death-rattle intones

I’ve come at last to Anhedonia
that lightless and forbidden place
beyond the hopes and dreams and saving grace
of human ken and mortal men
where moonlight fails and none has e’er returned

the stony fields and fetid fens
and moors forever draped in gloom
the whispers of impending doom
that echo in forgotten glens

the stars too faint to pierce the night
the cloying and unsettled haze
of apathetical malaise
that dulls even the purest light

I’ve come at last to Anhedonia
that languid and indiff’rent spot
beyond the realm of clarity of thought
where logic lies and purpose dies
where heart-light ebbs and none has e’er returned

the monuments to moments past
have crumbled ‘neath the weight of years
eroded by a lifetime’s tears
no joy in life is meant to last

it’s here I’ve found a resting place
a place to numb my pains and fears
eternal nights, eternal years
eternal sorrow I embrace

I’ve come at last to Anhedonia
that silent clearing in the trees
with bittersweet nostalgia on the breeze
where I will fade like mem’ries made
so long ago, and I shall ne’er return

“The Thing on the Ground”

“The Thing on the Ground”

(c) 2017 by Michael L. Utley

There—the thing on the ground
Some insect or other
A leg detached
Dragged off by ants

It kicks in stupid
Futile spasms
Insectoid mind buzzing in
Some alien tongue
Antennae crippled
Useless

I step closer
Hovering above
As this pedestrian drama plays
Below me

“Jump, damn you!
Save yourself,
Worthless grasshopper!”

I am strangely furious at this
Pathetic thing
This helpless thing
As it dies before my eyes

“Get up! Jump!”

I feel the sting of salt
In my eyes
The tears that have
Abandoned me for eons
Doubling the writhing thing
On the ground
Trebling it in a
Saline blur

It gazes dumbly
At the sky
The clouds
The sun
All too busy in their
Mindless journey above
To notice what’s below

Another spasm
Another kick
A pebble bounces away
Mandibles scream in
Silent rage

I close my eyes
I see her
The one I couldn’t save
The doomed, damned one
Who finally broke me in two
The crippled one too far gone
The one who dragged me to the brink
And jumped

Too late

I open my eyes

The ants have returned
The thing on the ground
Kicks languidly
Dispassionately
A shudder
A twitch

The ants swarm

“A Few Haiku & Senryu (56)”

(c) 2023 by Michael L. Utley

(#331)

dusty stew pot
her memory lingers by
the cold hearth

…..

(#332)

a tiny sun
in this cold dark hell
golden suisen

…..

(#333)

strings of koto
from beyond the bamboo grove
my heart breaks again

…..

(#334)

don’t look at me, moon
I’m not who you think I am
dark night of the soul

…..

(#335)

from my window
the mountain; from the mountain
eternity

…..

(#336)

green silence
and the end of all things
sea of trees

(Note: A bit of a title change for this series. I’ve been writing senryu almost as long as haiku and I figured it was time to clarify that these little collections contain both. Haiku pertain to nature and seasons, while senryu address the human condition. The formats are virtually identical; the subject matter differs.)

“A Few Haiku (54)”

(c) 2022 by Michael L. Utley

(#319)

the trees believed once
before they lost everything
the lies of winter

…..

(#320)

for whom do you seek
there’s no one here but me
long night moon

…..

(#321)

fetch the sickle moon
let us harvest ice blossoms
winter star fields

…..

(#322)

sorrows of autumn
kindle the warmth of winter
the blazing hearth

…..

(#323)

this bitter cold
reminds me I’m alive
and why I wish I weren’t

…..

(#324)

in each flake
a brief eternity
the grief of winter

“A Few Haiku (53)”

(c) 2022 by Michael L. Utley

(#313)

my world begins and ends
at my window
lonely winter moon

…..

(#314)

blood and feathers
the sky falls into my palm
a young boy’s shame

…..

(#315)

calligraphy of sorrow
etched on her wrists
autumn’s demise

…..

(#316)

fast asleep
in the heron’s belly
the stilt hut

…..

(#317)

one cup one bowl one spoon
and a thousand silences
winter’s bitter feast

…..

(#318)

when it’s time to laugh
I will laugh; until then
let me cry

“A Few Haiku (51)”

(c) 2022 by Michael L. Utley

(#301)

in sleeping woods
the scent of burning bark
the fragrance of memories

…..

(#302)

the tilt of her head
as she looked at me
the burned bridge

…..

(#303)

cairns of river stones
lest the stream forget
its sorrow

…..

(#304)

these old coins
both priceless and worthless
a wealth of emptiness

…..

(#305)

swift, swift the stream
and all it sweeps away
the torrent of the years

…..

(#306)

among the rushes
the blur of silent koi
and dreams of oblivion