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By Jon Yungkans

 

first day of spring
I keep thinking about
the end of autumn
—Bashō

 

wind blows through
bone and thought
sews fate’s threads
to bind pages that
fill time to time with
April rain and tears

 

a book’s lost words
May’s flowers with
December’s ghosts
hidden chapters of
language you hoped
might be understood

 

inktree your sorrow
runs deep as magic
the earth feels your
words and mystery
knotted in soil holds
you tight and listens

 

a book of love from
which layer by layer
cold has stolen as
you shivered hangs
in the air from your
heart to my dreams

 

a wandering heart
rooted in a rock’s
cleft yet tottering
a twist of smoke
amid fresh air and
dying memories

 

forever catching
your wild breath in
a haunting winter
paradise of melody
now at a threshold
and again to write

 

Jon Yungkans is a Los-Angeles-based poet, writer and photographer who has so far maintained his sanity despite freeways, over-the-top antics of some of his roommates and all the paranoia which life in the land of Nixon would seem to suggest. He still loves dogs; cats love or at least tolerate him as long as he feeds them; and coyotes who have stumbled onto his front lawn from nearby hills have so far maintained their indifference, preferring pizza from the college campus across the street while he drinks his coffee in relative (and thankful for it) quiet. In the midst of all this, Yungkans’ love of music in language sometimes overcomes his hesitation about who exactly reads poetry these days anyway and spills over to pen and laptop. He hopes that the heart and mind which his words drag with them resonate in turn with the ears and thoughts of those who read and listen to them. His works have appeared in Poet Lore, Poetry/LA, Twisted Vine Literary Journal and other publications.

 

 

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