All verses on this page have been selected from our online discussion group,
The Sijoforum,
which is open to anyone and everyone with an interest in Asian poetry in general and Korean poetry forms in particular.
My Other Pages
Maintained by
Larry Gross
Tallahassee, FL
USA
updated 090620
HIGHLIGHTS FROM THE SIJOFORUM
M. Shanna Moore
wind whispers thru trees chasing itself in whirlwinds of joyteasing our trees to shed their skin, it leaves poems on my doorstep this night poem blooms like dew on the dusty rose of dawn I have a wash tub I use for a bass and a washboard and thimbles for music .. Hawaiian tutu man turn over brand new refrigerator for ice and beer... we all get together sing make music in the old hawaiian way... I see your face in my dreams in a tree the very ground I walk on.... Its your eyes haunting and sad the sorrows of the universe.... I sing you a sassy song to turn your sad eyes smiling....
Kirsty Karkow
Terns and gulls line both rails,
the pier white with their waiting.
Graybeaks face the northeast gale,
steady as weather vanes in pewter.
A cold front! Why do they pause?
The wind would help them southward.
When night-time falls and oceans dim
the black gull settles on a perch. . .
Here he assumes a pensive pose
like Rodin's thinker, thinking.
Bored with shrieks, perhaps he longs
to be a warbler or a thrush
Full and strong runs the ebbing tide,
cold winds and colder currents.
My paddle is firm in spite of fear
that heart and mind may falter.
See there! a high-flung cataract. . .
I've reached the river's source.
My sense of smell has disappeared; it would seem a little thing.
I blame my tears on onions, my sniffs on sinusitis;
it's sad for a cook to wonder if the stew has any flavor.
Karina Klesko
Can one capture the scent of sandalwood on a summer wind?
Ah, to be born with a poet's heart, sweet nectar on the tongue.
Still I wait for autumn to color the pages of my journal.
Michael McClintock
I'm not spending a lifetime
picking fleas every few hours.
Primitive Man didn't, neither will I.
Damned waste of precious time.
I will make bows and arrows,
learn to use fire, invent the wheel.
Donald Lanska
Afloat on these black waters,
snow on the stones around us.
There is nothing more to be offered
than bodies clothed only in mist.
We feel so near to heaven,
despite the scent of sulfur.
an'ya
together at the seashore drizzling wet sand through our fingers
weird formations point skyward drip-castles in odd proportions
whiling away the summer what of childkind on other planets ?
felt so human in my heartache meant to die and kill the pain
at first blush this autumn morn poised atop a rocky precipice
I searched for one good omen ~ much obliged, O river otter!
fell fast asleep wracked with pain winter's cold wrath upon me
awake things went from bad to worse a woebegone wretch was I
nothing could warm me short of spring until two coyote puppies
Debi Bender
Tell me, Moon, who follows who, as we travel this darkened road?
Only silence answers; with the cold winter you’ve grown distant.
Even so, you are closer than friends in my far-off home.
You look fine, watermelon, round and ripened, plump and firm.
Come, I'll carry you down to the lake; there we can cool your skin.
Outside, so pretty, but tasteless; are your insides sweeter?
waiting here I'm hidden, among blossoms of wisteria
perfumed by petals, these longings rise, twine, intertwine and rise...
rise to break apart among clouds... silently break among clouds.
Mind, why do you tell me, this and that, although I never ask?
You use my eyes, my ears, my senses, but ignore my commands!
Already in hot water, I might as well take a bath.
Neca Stoller
I pick my way through weeds and thorns entangling empty land.
Silhouetted in the hazy twilight, a tall, stone chimney.
Standing alone, I still wonder -- Do you remember me?
Julie Damerell
your eyes dance under stars
hidden by clouds these many years
blue as a spring washed sky,
they see open wings not shadows
your fingers again find the curve
of a shore shifted, not gone
Dina E. Cox
summer is gone scattered lies my heart as these leaves of autumn
lingering crickets sing lustily -- where is my song of love?
my darling if you can touch me remind me who I amafter "Touch Me," by Stanley Kunitz
long we waited your arrival dreaming dreams of little boys
child of the child of my first passion here our universes meet
you gift us youth and innocence, we touch you and are healed
yesterday the lovebug virus confounded the world's great minds
today the planets align laugh at fears of Armageddon
through my window the red maple births a thousand thousand leaves
The Sijoforum
An email discussion group for sijo. Open to all.