the old man
woken from sleep remembers
he has 10 great-grand kids
Published by
Patricia Prime
Patricia has recently retired from teaching after 30 years, and now devotes some time to the reading recovery programme at her local school. She is the co-editor of the New Zealand haiku magazine Kokako and reviews editor of the online magazine Stylus. She writes short stories, poetry, reviews and articles, and likes to write collaborative poems with other poets.
Contact Patricia: pprime at ihug.co.nz.
View all posts by Patricia Prime
121 thoughts on “”
perhaps, clearing my throat, at this point in time, might soften my words, even enough for me, while enduring what i am about to say.
first, i reread the artist’s piece, and again…
“the old man
woken from sleep remembers
he has 10 great-grand kids”
what can i really say, for this says it all. even to the point of saying too much.
there isn’t that “hint” of mystery one normally connects to a haiku.
well, let’s see what we have here, line by line.
“the” in the first line is even too much.
second line, had potential, but simply said it all for us, rather than test our imagination.
third line, oops, what’s going on here, great-grand kids, you don’t say.
now what???
remake in order.
old man reposed
dreaming, for real, or ideal…
great-grand kids squeals
In reply to Bob’s rewriting my poem:”old man reposed” – real people don’t talk like that! “dreaming, for real, or ideal” – too intellectual, you’re giving us ideas, “”great-grand kids squeals” – they were not there with him. The old man(93)woke up to reality from a deep sleep, but is still able to remember that he has 10 great-grand children.
in response to patricia’s response, it may have seemed i was rewriting your piece, but that’s not true. what i was attempting to do was build upon your idea as i interpreted it, which resulted in your enlightening me, well worth the effort i think.
secondly, i do believe i am real, as are you. to say “real people” do not talk in this manner, this i ponder. perhaps you meant something with a different meaning; akin to a certain amount of individual wouldn’t conceivably understand the words i used, but real never the less. some real people would, some real people wouldn’t understand.
thirdly, a haiku is designed to give one “ideas”, there-in is it’s appeal.
before continuing, an apology to dft and the readers of this site, for my being “wordy”…
in continuing:
patricia, fourthly, in reading any haiku, how many “real people” are there to experience the event…
fifthly, “i think real people are more intellectual than you give us credit for.
sixthly, any real person upon awakening from a repose or “deep sleep” (for the real people), takes a moment to gather one’s senses, then “remembers” who they are, where they are, and what is the situation surrounding their hours of being awake, while still wondering if the situation before them is for real.
seventhly, in rereading my words, i wondered what you may have missed in them.
eighthly, i gave you applauds for producing a stirring piece, but in it’s finished form, i felt it was a story being told, rather than being in pure or even hybrid haiku form.
i appreciate your response, and i sincerely desire it doesn’t end here, for it is worthy of further discussion.
though as i said previously, “what do i know”, other than i am real, and even that is questioned by some.
Bob, thanks for the lengths you’ve gone to in discussing my poem. I still think it’s a very deep poem and has lots of emotional overtones and deeper layers of meaning than one can read into it at first – the sign of a “good” poem?? I think the old man saga is finished now. Look for some new stuff coming up from New Zealand!!
hello, again, patricia,
it has been my pleasure.
my thoughts are, any piece worth writing is worthy of lengthy discussion. alas, the word individualism comes to mind. who among us think precisely the same, or can agree on most things.
i am not debating your writings being deep, nor carrying deep overtones, nor possessing deep meanings, however, within the frame works of the haiku, there is required from the artist’s work a hinting of the inroads which are intended to nudge one in that/those directions. as in any haiku, those paths are many, depending upon one’s perception and another’s precept.
i look forward to the “new stuff coming out and up from new zealand”, may they be just as challenging.
i was elated by your response to my initial comments. who can accurately point out the little intricacies of one’s creation better than the “Creator”…
kind lady,
inspirational behind my smile; i was not referring to a failure of memory, but the inability of memories to take the place of the “real thing”
–
grey spanish moss
between the green oak leaves –
lucent sunday morning
perhaps, clearing my throat, at this point in time, might soften my words, even enough for me, while enduring what i am about to say.
first, i reread the artist’s piece, and again…
“the old man
woken from sleep remembers
he has 10 great-grand kids”
what can i really say, for this says it all. even to the point of saying too much.
there isn’t that “hint” of mystery one normally connects to a haiku.
well, let’s see what we have here, line by line.
“the” in the first line is even too much.
second line, had potential, but simply said it all for us, rather than test our imagination.
third line, oops, what’s going on here, great-grand kids, you don’t say.
now what???
remake in order.
old man reposed
dreaming, for real, or ideal…
great-grand kids squeals
but, hey, what do i know…
In reply to Bob’s rewriting my poem:”old man reposed” – real people don’t talk like that! “dreaming, for real, or ideal” – too intellectual, you’re giving us ideas, “”great-grand kids squeals” – they were not there with him. The old man(93)woke up to reality from a deep sleep, but is still able to remember that he has 10 great-grand children.
in response to patricia’s response, it may have seemed i was rewriting your piece, but that’s not true. what i was attempting to do was build upon your idea as i interpreted it, which resulted in your enlightening me, well worth the effort i think.
secondly, i do believe i am real, as are you. to say “real people” do not talk in this manner, this i ponder. perhaps you meant something with a different meaning; akin to a certain amount of individual wouldn’t conceivably understand the words i used, but real never the less. some real people would, some real people wouldn’t understand.
thirdly, a haiku is designed to give one “ideas”, there-in is it’s appeal.
to be cont.
before continuing, an apology to dft and the readers of this site, for my being “wordy”…
in continuing:
patricia, fourthly, in reading any haiku, how many “real people” are there to experience the event…
fifthly, “i think real people are more intellectual than you give us credit for.
sixthly, any real person upon awakening from a repose or “deep sleep” (for the real people), takes a moment to gather one’s senses, then “remembers” who they are, where they are, and what is the situation surrounding their hours of being awake, while still wondering if the situation before them is for real.
seventhly, in rereading my words, i wondered what you may have missed in them.
to be continued…
in continuing, for i almost there…
eighthly, i gave you applauds for producing a stirring piece, but in it’s finished form, i felt it was a story being told, rather than being in pure or even hybrid haiku form.
i appreciate your response, and i sincerely desire it doesn’t end here, for it is worthy of further discussion.
though as i said previously, “what do i know”, other than i am real, and even that is questioned by some.
Bob, thanks for the lengths you’ve gone to in discussing my poem. I still think it’s a very deep poem and has lots of emotional overtones and deeper layers of meaning than one can read into it at first – the sign of a “good” poem?? I think the old man saga is finished now. Look for some new stuff coming up from New Zealand!!
hello, again, patricia,
it has been my pleasure.
my thoughts are, any piece worth writing is worthy of lengthy discussion. alas, the word individualism comes to mind. who among us think precisely the same, or can agree on most things.
i am not debating your writings being deep, nor carrying deep overtones, nor possessing deep meanings, however, within the frame works of the haiku, there is required from the artist’s work a hinting of the inroads which are intended to nudge one in that/those directions. as in any haiku, those paths are many, depending upon one’s perception and another’s precept.
i look forward to the “new stuff coming out and up from new zealand”, may they be just as challenging.
i was elated by your response to my initial comments. who can accurately point out the little intricacies of one’s creation better than the “Creator”…
funny thought, “i wonder if patricia is going to allow me to have the last word…”
Thanks Patricia for this unusual Haiku.
two old men
greet each other again
with their canes~
“see you tomorrow”
John eighty-eight to
Ram well past ninety~
the dead don’t die~
they go elsewhere make
their new cosmic-cages~
Hi, haiku lovers. My response to Bob and Narayanan:
seventy years
he held her . . . still holds her
and the wreath she carries
Love, Patricia
i think patricia loves to hold me suspended
===
empty arms …
present needs
albeit, memories fail to fill the void
–
eternally
just me
–
Bob, liked the idea. Thought it could be honed a little. Suggest:
empty arms . . .
present needs
as memory fails
kind lady,
inspirational behind my smile; i was not referring to a failure of memory, but the inability of memories to take the place of the “real thing”
–
grey spanish moss
between the green oak leaves –
lucent sunday morning
translucent rain
not a soul to be seen
city loneliness
translucent —
tears and the rain
falling on a lonely night
neighbour’s garden
passionfruit tendrils
wind around the porch
fertile garden
empty on a winter night —
my neighbor’s porch
early morning
above the roar of traffic
a sliver of moon
a covey of doves
flushed —
the rising sun
I go outside
to watch the sunrise . . .
te atatu – “the dawn”
breathing interrupted
her beauty —
te atatu peninsular
dawn chorus
magpies roost in the
eucalypt trees
brisk winds ~
silence,
where do the birds go, bad weather comes
–
trees sway
raptures circling …
faster and faster
leaves rustle
from the back porch
sun nearly full
so red …
the setting sun
leaves settling, after the day is done
night settles
out in the street
a car alarm
night’s embrace
alarmed fledgling’s flight
from my hand —
stars flung cross the sky
–
cold winter morning
the bright yellow slickers
of council workmen
chimney cross the city
steam wavering from —
my cup of green tea
–
half in, half out
of sunshine
the harbour bridge
sudden downpour —
cross the highway
blue skies, sunshine
after the storm
the farmer dries his lambs
with wife’s hair dryer
half a rainbow
through the window
the sky, a patch of blue
wintry sunlight
comes through the windows –
it’s time to clean them
times long past –
tear-stained window
unable to see through clearly
window shopping . . .
reflections of the sky
a single blue
lost in thought
lightning flashes through the blue-grey clouds
sky’s reflection ?
–
choosing a gift
she settles on a pair
of cats in love
lovers walking
hand-in-hand —
grey clouds wash over quarter moon
vintage car rally
lovers in period costumes
kiss
cool summer night –
vintage red wine
beneath the young elm tree
early morning
a chimney pot glows red
in the sunrise
new day beginning
as the world turns …
another day ending
half moon in the sky
I nibble a cookie
into the same shape
never alone —
midnight journey till sunrise
full moon port-side
–
down
from the mountain road
the twists and turns
twisting and turning
my shoulders —
night’s silence
blue moon –
I awake to the call
of a morepork
ruru
large yellow eyes, high piercing call —
out of the darkness
–
bad news
come twilight —
good news
the mailman delivers
a surprise parcel from India . . .
a book to review
closer review
imperfect birthmark, naevus @
adds beauty
baby’s birthmark –
five fingerprints
on his side
yellow pollen thighs
four low flying bumblebees —
on my neighbors side
neighbour’s retriever –
he opens one eye
at the cat
house boarded —
cat on the prowl
surveying the darkness
love lorn
the tom cat’s lament doused
with water
swell after swell
driven by the wind –
sea of green grass
spring arrival –
the godwits return
from Alaska
three godwits –
i pause
reminiscent of summer sand-castles
castles in the air –
writing to overseas friends
about the old days
the good old days —
“hark!
all the welkin rings”
–
the old man
hearing aid forgotten
cups hand to ear
the old man –
finally walking
in my father’s footsteps
footsteps in the fog . . .
almost home
my pace quickens
almost
not nearly enough —
then, we’re gone
–
each day quickens –
the seedling
now, the mighty oak
pushing the swing
I notice the first leaves
on the maple
black coffee in hand –
pushing the swing
autumn evening breeze
coffee beans –
sampling different varieties
in the shopping mall
here, once
a vast forest did stand
shopping malls
in a friend’s home
the swamp kauri crafted into
a dining table
lord of the forest –
a gentle breeze
bent his knees
crescendo –
Ravel’s bolero
on a CD
pathological –
nobody, nobody, nobody
knows
–
patricia, such a haunting piece, resembling one’s midnight walks.
often rumored, poets die young.
strange, though fascinating, where one’s inspirations come from
–
phone call –
no-one at the other end
am I paranoid?
my question, too …
in the mirror
my answer
reflection –
older than both parents
when they died
aged –
the solitary pine
dwarfs all, in the forest
bush walk –
the fantail accompanies us
all the way
white fantail
beneath the underbrush
bed of green moss
old peach tree –
the lichen grows thicker
with each passing year
life’s sweeter
with each passing year —
memory grows shorter
short term memory
fades more rapidly with age –
long term remains clear
winter
short days, long nights —
faded red roses, in full bloom
bloom on her cheeks
the ageing woman
resorts to rouge
sensing her beauty, i wink
blowing a kiss …
the spinster winks back
emerging
from hibernation
the zoo’s tortoise
emerging, on my patio
restless night
each leaf, holding it’s breath
aged gentleman
talks and talks about
the ‘good old days’
reflecting in the mirror —
the ‘good old nights’
when my whispers were heard
city library –
whispers between the stacks
only the breeze
shooting the breeze –
evening stroll
amidst the pines
gardening forgotten –
wind tosses branches
of the old pines
fragrance of her hair
on a bed of pine needles
forgotten
drawing
the evening shadows
the old pine
the days
grow shorter —
my shadow grows longer
shadow of the spoon
seafood chowder in the pot
I stir and think
flowering gardenia’s bouquet
predawn bedroom —
i think, then stir
the bouquet
my grandson hands me –
wildflowers
multi-colored wildflowers
cross the valley —
in his dream, spring
spring holidays
in the empty classroom
desktops closed
the old man and toddler sway between steps
sheeting rain
a blue heron walks on stilts
among the mangroves
flaming poinsettia
cool showering rain —
day’s troubles, wash away
shopping mall
tears from the three-year-old
on Santa’s knee
corner of quiet room
tears from a year ago —
on his knees
arthritic knees
the old lady gardens
on her cushion
rust-crusted rake
side the row —
pale-green seedling unfurls
end of the week
a splash of paint
in the teacher’s hair
moon over miami
barely above the waves —
today’s troubles end
chinese new year
illuminated by lanterns
the park
year of yiyou –
rooster’s crow
rings in the dawn
first sign of autumn
going to work
in the dark
last sign of winter
coming home
in the daylight
northerly wind
sea spray washes over
the writer’s trail
pink hybiscus blossoms …
wash the writer’s day
beginning to pale
bougainvillea
a butterfly disguised
among its flowers
sparrow’s nest
under construction —
how long this twig
westwards
in a window
the sun setting
facing dawn
easterly to westward …
the sunflower
start of autumn
I walk to the seminar
kicking leaves
good evening patricia(or perchance morning)
your thoughts of autumn jarred me into rememberance; albeit spring here, autumn finds you there.
again, gold in arrowtown
this third season —
of my loneliness
eternally
just me