Short Poems

Each time he gives a thrust, the juice squishes:
the wooden bell hammer is sodden at the mountain temple

Dangerous, yet felicitous:
here comes our bridegroom, crossing the bridge of a single log

Wetting his head, he slips in:
a man with a coat but no umbrella shelters from the rain

Each time they meet, they make squishy noises:
sharpening my razor on a stone, a puddle underneath

It was so cold she let in the wind:
the beggar woman tore the board off the wall and burned it

He wants and doesn't want to roast them:
the poor monk has only a handful of beans

Down the ass-tuft the dew drips, drips:
ice on the water bird's tail melts in the morning

Dammit, they get pulled up all the time:
my bamboo shoots grow in a neighbor's yard

As for my life, I've led it
With fair content and credit:
It said: ‘Take this.’ I took it.
Said: ‘Leave.’ And I forsook it.
If I had done without it
None would have cared about it,
Or said: ‘One has refused it
Who might have meetly used it.’

If hope grew on a bush,
And joy grew on a tree,
What a nosegay for the plucking
There would be!
But oh, in windy autumn
When frail flowers wither,
What should we do for hope and joy,
Fading together?