Poems
by Rebecca Lang
How many times I choose to write
Of forests pure with rapt delight:
Of pale-limbed birch and maple rich
In crimson hues in autumn's pitch,
Of scent of cedar, scent of pine,
Pink-crowned cherry in spring's prime,
Acorn, willow, oak, and spruce:
Nesting grounds where songbirds roost.
And all the pomp and majesty
Of tall and stately redwood tree.
You might have lived a thousand years
But for my angst and ghostly fears.
Emotions won't stay in my head,
So your fair life is snuffed instead.
Your corpse cut up ten thousand times,
Tattooed with ink in dull black lines.
All this I do in foolish hope
That these words I use to cope
And the advice I sometimes scrawl
Onto your corpse may someday fall
Upon the ears of those in need,
Upon the lost whom I might lead,
To share the comfort that I know,
To show them ways that they might grow.
But life is not a graceful dance.
We bump and fall and hurt by chance
And hope that somehow by God's grace
We leave the world a better place.
I ponder all the sacrifice,
Unknown to me, to bear this life.
If my words can no one seize,
What have I done but murder trees?
Of forests pure with rapt delight:
Of pale-limbed birch and maple rich
In crimson hues in autumn's pitch,
Of scent of cedar, scent of pine,
Pink-crowned cherry in spring's prime,
Acorn, willow, oak, and spruce:
Nesting grounds where songbirds roost.
And all the pomp and majesty
Of tall and stately redwood tree.
You might have lived a thousand years
But for my angst and ghostly fears.
Emotions won't stay in my head,
So your fair life is snuffed instead.
Your corpse cut up ten thousand times,
Tattooed with ink in dull black lines.
All this I do in foolish hope
That these words I use to cope
And the advice I sometimes scrawl
Onto your corpse may someday fall
Upon the ears of those in need,
Upon the lost whom I might lead,
To share the comfort that I know,
To show them ways that they might grow.
But life is not a graceful dance.
We bump and fall and hurt by chance
And hope that somehow by God's grace
We leave the world a better place.
I ponder all the sacrifice,
Unknown to me, to bear this life.
If my words can no one seize,
What have I done but murder trees?
The faeries hid my pens away
And so I cannot write today.
Pixies all my pencils stole,
Hoarded them like they were gold.
And if, by chance, I found a spare
It'd do me little good I fear.
The only sharpener I own
Was smashed by dwarves upon a stone.
Should I then my finger cut
And write this poem in my own blood?
But it were useless, too, I think.
My notebook's eaten by a Sphinx,
Who left me but the metal wire.
And all the elf-lads did conspire
To tear my loose leaf, one by one,
Until their wretched work was done.
And while I flapped around the room
To save my paper from its doom,
The shine of my computer screen
Attracted the hobgoblins' greed.
They took it, plus my best keyboard.
They dragged my mouse out by its chord.
Harpies in my printer nest.
A dragon has burned down my desk.
Burdened with these pests and blights
How can an author hope to write?
Brownies stomp upon my head.
I think I'll read a book instead.
And so I cannot write today.
Pixies all my pencils stole,
Hoarded them like they were gold.
And if, by chance, I found a spare
It'd do me little good I fear.
The only sharpener I own
Was smashed by dwarves upon a stone.
Should I then my finger cut
And write this poem in my own blood?
But it were useless, too, I think.
My notebook's eaten by a Sphinx,
Who left me but the metal wire.
And all the elf-lads did conspire
To tear my loose leaf, one by one,
Until their wretched work was done.
And while I flapped around the room
To save my paper from its doom,
The shine of my computer screen
Attracted the hobgoblins' greed.
They took it, plus my best keyboard.
They dragged my mouse out by its chord.
Harpies in my printer nest.
A dragon has burned down my desk.
Burdened with these pests and blights
How can an author hope to write?
Brownies stomp upon my head.
I think I'll read a book instead.
Spring
Para-para, para-para
Raindrops sprinkle pink sakura*
Petals overflow the gutter
* Cherry blossoms
Summer
Kira-kira, kira-kira
Sun hits lake and shines like glitter
On stones matsu* needles gather
*Pine
Fall
Para-para, para-para
Crimson leaves blow hither-thither
From momiji*, shadows scatter
*Maple
Winter
Chira-chira, chira-chira
Snowflakes hit the ground and wither
Ume's* budding, I wait eager
*Plum blossoms
Para-para, para-para
Raindrops sprinkle pink sakura*
Petals overflow the gutter
* Cherry blossoms
Summer
Kira-kira, kira-kira
Sun hits lake and shines like glitter
On stones matsu* needles gather
*Pine
Fall
Para-para, para-para
Crimson leaves blow hither-thither
From momiji*, shadows scatter
*Maple
Winter
Chira-chira, chira-chira
Snowflakes hit the ground and wither
Ume's* budding, I wait eager
*Plum blossoms
Dance, princess, dance
Under starlit canopies:
Golden trunks, silver leaves.
Clover made of amethyst.
Twirl, princess, twirl.
Scent of peaches, apples red,
Cherries resting in their bed.
Wine-filled goblets set in pearl.
Lurch, princess, lurch
Near a pool, but don't look in
If you dare not see your sin.
Revel only in your mirth.
Pant, princess, pant.
Snake-filled branches, rotting fruit,
Demons gnashing teeth at you.
Spells you cannot disenchant.
Fall, princess, fall
to your pillow, sleep's your friend.
We will find you soon again.
Tattered slippers fill the hall.
Under starlit canopies:
Golden trunks, silver leaves.
Clover made of amethyst.
Twirl, princess, twirl.
Scent of peaches, apples red,
Cherries resting in their bed.
Wine-filled goblets set in pearl.
Lurch, princess, lurch
Near a pool, but don't look in
If you dare not see your sin.
Revel only in your mirth.
Pant, princess, pant.
Snake-filled branches, rotting fruit,
Demons gnashing teeth at you.
Spells you cannot disenchant.
Fall, princess, fall
to your pillow, sleep's your friend.
We will find you soon again.
Tattered slippers fill the hall.
Twenty-eight rice balls
have gone in our bellies.
Now we sit swapping licorice
on shaded park benches
in a place where the desert
crashes into the mountains.
But had we arrived
just seventy years sooner
we might have dined on
Jello served on steamed rice
and listened to teeth chatter
in the cramped, hot mess hall.
How strange this quiet tragedy
has brought us all together
in a place where barbed wire
lies on the other side of the river.
(Note: Manzanar is a Japanese Internment Camp located in California)
have gone in our bellies.
Now we sit swapping licorice
on shaded park benches
in a place where the desert
crashes into the mountains.
But had we arrived
just seventy years sooner
we might have dined on
Jello served on steamed rice
and listened to teeth chatter
in the cramped, hot mess hall.
How strange this quiet tragedy
has brought us all together
in a place where barbed wire
lies on the other side of the river.
(Note: Manzanar is a Japanese Internment Camp located in California)