“The Apple Tree”

 

I looked at the apple tree today,

the one the storm did not take,

and saw it still full of apples,

mottled, green/red fruit, some

rotted through with ants eating

at the brown-turning flesh

and I thought of the last months

and what was ripening inside you

and we still didn’t know….

when your breasts were like

the now ripening apples, globes of heaviness, topped with brown nipples.

 

They lay cradled in my hands warm with life and I could feel them pulse,

the river inside still flowing.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2019

“Bhava Yoga”…..

(A landscape I did in England years ago…)

 

Bhava Yoga

 

Morning’s roseate sky

Has been blasted away,

Branches now whirligigs

Swirl with a fierce southern wind

As windows rattle in frames.

 

A tattered umbrella

Shades from a relentless sun.

I listen to Bhava Yoga

The vibration of Love,

Where imagination meets

Memory in the dark.

Yet surrounding these soothing tones

The world outside this music

Conspires to disrupt, sweep away

All thought, reflection.

 

The fierce wind gets my attention.

I can not deny its primal force.

 

Still, the pulse of Bhava Yoga

Draws me within,

Feeds imagination with memory,

Calls forth something as enduring as the fury outside,

And I feel the pulse of the infinite.

==

We are like birds,

Clinging with dulled claws to

The swaying branches of life.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2019

 

 

 

“High Road”…a poem

For Frank T, Steve New and Frank H, and Kim Russell.  I’m flying with you guys, I’m tired of the crows…

 

High Road

 

Asking directions to the high road,

I got shrugs and blank stares

yet knew there were two roads-

both led into infinity

both coursed through

all manner of life with pitfalls, trenches

where bones were broken

skulls rattled loose from moorings

like ships in high winds, dangerous waters.

 

What was the difference

and why should it matter?

The effort costs

energy regardless the choosing.

 

An old man sat at the crossroads,

a bum, grizzled gray hair

sprouting porcupine’s quills,

rheumy, pale eyes staring at the world–

little interest in what passed.

 

I asked him the way to the High Road

and with a toothless grin

he stared at my feet, my hands,

lifted his eyes to my face.

I thought him mad and cursed myself

(asking questions of a fool!)

And was moving away when I heard his voice:

 

“Did I know of the eagle and crow,

how they soared upon thermals

higher and higher

became dark, formless specks upon a limitless sky,

lost to human eye, invisible even to gods?”

 

I thought him crazed and started away-

he cackled and spat on the ground.

Something made me turn, startled,

And saw the wisdom of Solomon in his

now- shining eyes.

 

 

“The crow harries the eagle, the eagle flies higher.

Vengeful, annoying crow flies round eagle’s wing

turning this way and that, yet the eagle flaps upward

soars upon thinning air until the crow

breathless and spent, drops to the common ground-

falls to his death.”

 

“The High Road, the path of the eagle.

The low road, the path of the crow,

mingling with dullards

daring nothing, with eyes cast downward

only saving a bit of energy

learning nothing of worth.”

 

Silently he sat, an old man

eyes glazed with age and fatigue.

With a nod to his wisdom and a toss of a coin

I gathered my strength and pushed onward,

Upwards, the lift of eagles, now under my limbs.

---

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017-2019

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Musings On A Closing Day”

I move my chair

to observe Mt. Fuji–

monstrous perfection

topped with the cooling crust

of spring snows.

 

Languid movement

of a branch,

like a geisha

unfurling her arm

from a gray kimono,

makes petals fall,

a scented, pink snow

covering my upturned face

with careless kisses.

 

Timid winds caress

my limbs,

a fleeting relief

to tired bones

brittle now with

a sullen defeat of life.

 

Raked sand of garden

waves barely disturbed

by feet like two gray stones

as grains flow

round ankles.

I realize once again

I am no obstacle to

the sands of time.

 

My heart is quieted

by the passage of nothing

for in this nothing

is revealed the fullness of life.

 

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2016-2019

“Seasons Change” ..a haibun.

(“Canada Geese”, watercolor, Jane Kohut-Bartels)

 

Utilizing Tanka form and Haiku.

 

Autumn wind startles–
Lowered to an ominous
Key—Ah! Mournful sounds!
The fat mountain deer listen-
Add their bellowing sorrow.

 

 

The gingko filters the sunlight, the ground a crescent- printed cloth fit for a yukata. It hits my hands and feet, creating white scars that do not burn. I welcome the sun. My bones grow thin.

This passage, from summer to fall, eternal movement of Universal Design, counts down the years I have left. There is so much more to savor. Two lives would not be enough.

Tsuki, a beggar’s cup too thin to fatten the road, still shines with a golden brightness, unwavering in the chill aki wind. The Milky Way reigns over all.

 

Sharp moon cuts the sky

The fierce wind from the mountains

Disturbs dragonflies.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2019

“The Stillness of Death” from “Song of the Nightingale”

 

THE STILLNESS OF DEATH

–

Kneeling before her tea,

Lady Nyo did not move.

She barely breathed,

Knowing tomorrow depended

Upon her actions today.

–

Lord Nyo was drunk again.

When in his cups

The household scattered.

Beneath the kitchen

Was the crawl space

Where two servants hid their heads-

A third wore an iron pot.

–

Lord Nyo was known

For three things:

Archery-

Temper-

And drink.

–

Tonight he strung

His seven foot bow,

Donned his quiver

High on his back.

–

He looked at the pale face

Of his aging wife,

His eyes blurry, unfocused

And remembered the first time

He pillowed her.

–

She was fifteen.

Her body powdered petals,

Bones like butter,

Black hair like bo silk.

The blush of shy passion

Coursed through her veins

Like a tinted stream.

–

Still beautiful  was she,

Too fragile for his tastes now.

Better a plump courtesan,

Not all delicate and saddened beauty.

–

He drew back the bow

In quick succession-

Let five arrows pierce

The shoji.

Each grazed the shell ear

Of his wife.

–

Lady Nyo’s life hung on her stillness.

She willed herself dead.

Death after all these years

Would have been welcome.

---

This started out in 2011 to be a single poem but had weaved itself into a story of 13 episodes. In part I was greatly influenced by the tanka (poetry) of the great Man’yoshu, an 8th century document (collection) of over 5000 poems by lovers, emperors, court ladies, peasants (represented in their songs), priests and others.  It was a great literary achievement not done at this time anywhere else in the world.

It became a story of a middle aged couple, he much older, an arranged marriage.  He is a general in his daimyo’s (warlords) army and has forgotten the love of a normal family.  Her patience and devotion breaks open his crusty heart. Both are samurai, she from a titled samurai family.

“Song of the Nightingale” was published by Amazon.com in 2016.

 

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted , 2019

Painting by the author.

Cosmic Force

 

(Was to be the cover painting of “Pitcher of Moon”, 2014, Amazon, but didn’t make it.)

COSMIC FORCE

 

A rhythmic universe explodes

While chortling stars, freed of their orbits

Scream across the cosmos

Lighting fires of comets and primordial dust

Standing the color spectrum on its head.

Death, then re-birth-

The Ultimate magic!

Recreates the fabric of new life

The progress of timelessness.

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017

 

“Quiet Birds”……

QUIET BIRDS

 

Quiet birds!

Your chatter adds crystallized chaos

To last night’s tokaji clouding the brain.

My eyes open with reluctance

To splinters of light

Challenging soft, painful membranes.

 

 

 

The smell of black coffee cuts

Into the reality I am no longer young.

A night like last should be wrapped in tissue

Locked deep in a trunk,

To find when I am past temptations-

Having room only for memories and regrets.

 

 

 

Quiet birds.

The day looks promising.

I await a new flock of metaphors

With polished feathers

Landing on my shoulders,

Weighing me down-

Colorful daydreams,

Peacock words,

Bird of Paradise thoughts!

 

 

For some reason,

Words, whole paragraphs,

Circle my head, then

Flap off in a thunder of wings.

 

I hear laughter of rude crows,

See a mess of bird droppings,

And with a few cracked seeds begin my penitence-

Starvation wages for a poor poet,

Left to a flightless life.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Storm Drain Baby”

 

Yesterday a baby was born,

Placed in a storm drain

To die by a father who wasn’t.

Three days of heavy rain

Washed the Blood of this Lamb

Into the sea.

 

He was found, expected to live

And died,

His short life measured in scant public

Outrage.

 

The 19 year old father said as they

Led him away:

“It was a miscarriage gone wrong.”

 

The rain continues today

Rushing down streets

To storm drains,

Making a gurgling sound.

 

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017

“The Children of Aleppo”

 

The Children of Aleppo

 

There is no childhood in Aleppo.

There are little martyrs-in-the-making

Where 5 year olds and 8 year olds

Wish for a ‘family death’

Where they can die together

With their parents

Where they live in peace in Heaven

Never tasting the fruits of peace on Earth.

 

There is no childhood in Aleppo.

The children haunt the abandoned houses

Of friends who have fled the city.

There they find abandoned teddy bears

While looking for guns for the rebels, their fathers.

 

A dead canary in his cage

Abandoned by its owners

They flee the rockets, bombs

And mortars.

In the face of daily death

The sight of this bird

Evokes a child’s sorrow.

The gunfire outside continues

(They are used to the noise)

And huddle in the pockmarked

Halls until safe to scatter.

 

 

The children of Aleppo

Have no teachers, doctors.

These have fled the cities, schools

But they still pine for ice cream,

For music in the streets,

For curtains not torn by violence,

For books and toys

And gardens and flowers,

For friends that have not died

Innocent blood splattering

The dirty cobble stones

At their feet.

 

The children of Aleppo

Are free and children again

Only in their dreams,

And perhaps, if you believe so,

After death.

 

How do you put back the brains

Of a child in the cup of the shattered skull?

How do you soothe the howls of the mothers,

The groans of the fathers in grief?

How do you comfort surviving siblings?

 

The children of Aleppo

Have no future as children.

Suffer the little children.

They are the sacrifice of parents

And factions,

And politicians

All with the blood of

10,000 children

Who have died

In a country torn

By immeasurable violence.

 

The beautiful children of Aleppo

Like children everywhere

Still want to chase each other

In the gardens, on playgrounds,

Want to dance in the streets,

Want to pluck flowers for their mothers

And they still pine for ice cream.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2016-2019