MJ blathers

dark poet who loves to laugh

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wind telephone

[a Japanese man who lost family to the tsunami set a telephone booth in his garden. many use his ‘wind telephone’ to speak to loved ones lost]

I don’t know why I am living. I don’t know why I am the only one left.

I don’t know why I am living when all I have known and loved — all my family is swept away to sea. Why did I survive? Why am I the one to wake up each morning?

How do I promise you that even in my sadness, I am surviving — I think because it had fallen on me to continue the family, to find strength within me to carry on so that I can assure you we will be well; to let you know that you may rest now and let go of care for the family and find the loving peace your souls deserve.

Please hear me on the wind. Please know that our family will continue. Join the winds of Heaven, beloved ones. Let our family’s love sustain and keep you.

Ah, me! How can I do all this?
Oh, wind, whisper peace to me, I ask … I beg you


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wind whispered

low roar

wind-whisper, pine to fir

fir to pinch-blossomed rhodie

rhodie to seed-bent grass

grass to yellow, anticipatory smile

daisy’s white petals erect

a-tingle, funneling in

wind-borne news

she twists, glancing up

at evergreens nodding

dancing to the excitement

of gossip

of gossip

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wind song

whispers of wind buffet

the long, hanging chimes

brushing, caressing, clambering

clanging non-melodic tones

that grow, invent, cry out

a music more complex

than reason

like love

we think we know

but when we feel

all sense staggers

our understanding

is captured on the wind





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firs and lone spruce chitter

over tidings spilled

by o’er-flying geese


sway to prattle-tattle

as curious breeze insinuates

among the branches


evergreens pining to hear

shiver in green scent

redolent with excitement


sigh, needled by tidbits

items too scant to satisfy

the itch for whole story


tale grows, stands disagree

branches frenzied in furious dispute

goaded by whiplash wind


gradually calmer cones prevail

‘we will leaf this,’ they bark

the grove quiets to murmurs

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ripples of hope

ripples of hope

with thanks to Robert F. Kennedy


settling atop columbia’s agitation

at the mouth of the river

buffeted by conflicting chop

of wind and current

buller’s shearwaters

in jagged line disappear

and reappear to each other

carried up and down in dizzying

fray of elements too powerful

to be else but borne


settling atop each state’s agitation

in the maw of federal legislation

buffeted by conflicting blows

of hot air and posing

bullied mere waiters

for justice line untouching

but not untouched by others

carted down and down in dizzied

fray of greed too powerful

to be overcome





sinking then in stagnant pool

of believed inevitability

good common men flail

give out, give in after years

treading toxic water to save

their loves from drowning

yet may a gesture, a helping

hand or program of insight

give hope and renewed strength

rippling out to touch and heal