(In the manner of Matsuo Basho’s The Narrow Road to the Deep North.)
Arrived at parking lot fully one hour early after long drive and last-minute shopping. Read Jack Kerouac’s On the Road with desire to finish, but did not. Juice from garlic spinach calzone dripped on to my shirt and sweatpants. Winter Solstice fast approaching… reminds me of Chinese word for #4…. signifies death….
Most roses appear red. Not absolutely true.
Violets reflect opposite the end of spectrum.
Obviously, this poem is not a haiku.
Please, don’t throw a tantrum….
I opened the door of the SUV and stepped out into the unseasonably warn air, surrounded by snow banks and streams formed from its melt. The scene reminded me of the bareness of the Moon… or some far away planet… except for the asphalt…. The buildings…. The other cars…. And the snow…. The moon is bleak. Covered with basaltic flows on the Mare. The Sun is stark white. Earths atmosphere reflects blue hues… so the Sun appears yellow…. It really is white.
(One of the characteristics of Basho’s haiku was that he did not strictly adhere to the accepted structure for the seventeen syllables. He also wrote other forms of Zen Poetry. And he often poked fun at others through playful poems.)