using an expression
my father used–
understanding it
Published by
Norman Darlington
Norman Darlington lives in rural Ireland surrounded by the sights and smells that provide constant inspiration for his work. He has been published, on- and off-line, on three continents.
It is the philosophy and art of Taneda Santoka, his marrying of the spiritual with the earthy and mundane, and his total identity of life and art, which form the single most important influence on Norman's work. You can see some of his photo-haiga at Norman’s haiga
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10 thoughts on “”
This is surely a very deep and exceptional senryu[haiku]. My father is laid up and I also help him . My response.
bathing my father
I sing Bhairavi ~
birds bead silences ~
winter day
outside my window –
umbrella tree awaits the rain
–
an angel
mercy flight –
without wings
–
wintry afternoon
on my patio –
barren rose bushes
–
neon signs flashing
darken font
on the horizon, new moon
This is surely a very deep and exceptional senryu[haiku]. My father is laid up and I also help him . My response.
bathing my father
I sing Bhairavi ~
birds bead silences ~
Note: Bhairavi is the name of a Raaga.
winter day
outside my window –
umbrella tree awaits the rain
–
an angel
mercy flight –
without wings
–
wintry afternoon
on my patio –
barren rose bushes
–
neon signs flashing
darken font
on the horizon, new moon
–
norman, very deep indeed. nice to see you here again.
new season
the story told
by my senses
Excellent, Norman. It speaks to me of the boy becoming the man – and maybe a ‘chip off the old block’ at that.
looking at
my son’s photo I see
my father’s face
winter solstice…
dad cues up
some billie holiday
at my grandmother’s knees
… way it used to be
my daughter’s story, too
–
Love for you
became her care
until she joined you there–
grief gives way to fields & wind
and now I hear your voice again
for Harold A. Borgh
one of those days –
standstill commuter traffic
seagull stands in fast lane
An old memory
about my late father…
his alive language
an epiphany
knowing when to get out of the rain
i was wrong