Miniatures Found In The Tea Leaves At The Bottom Of A Chipped Cup Poem by Marc Creamore

1

This Winter’s sky bears more tears
than the year before —
Agitated,
yet numb from the neck up,
I can’t bring myself to even write
a single line.
I make excuses,
pretend that my daughter
takes up all my time,
that domestic affairs intrude
on the creative
process...

What a fool I am,
languishing in lassitude
instead of planted

a garden of sentences.

2

Sitting outside the tea house
I think back to a time
I spent here
with a friend —
hung over,
listening
to the delicate sound

of a koto.


3

While reading Tu Fu
I always find myself beneath a full moon
among cherry blossoms,
watching a solitary boatman
quietly rowing
along the river

of Heaven.


4

I waken to see your naked body
cross before the mirror...
There are blossoms
exploding
from your flesh,
there are swallowtails
painting your hair.

Like a garden in early May,
you accept the dew
of the morning
with the ease
of the sun’s

tongue.

5

Old friend,
don’t be troubled
by the unemployment
situation
or the cost of a simple meal
of vegetables...

Just read your books
and dream your dreams...

We’ll meet together
in an alpine meadow many years
from now

and this worldly mess
will seem

irrelevant.


6

Another aimless Friday,
hot sake, music and solitude...
Oh well,
there is no cause to complain.
I’m just going to go
where the spirit leads,
follow some long lost
river in my mind,
discover
in my own meandering way
some hidden valley
where deer dance
in delicate freedom
and the ghosts
of dead poets
chant words
like

happy children.





7


Grey October afternoon.
I should be out looking for work,
but I sit inside and listen
to music
instead.

It’s hard sometimes,
to comb the knots out of your beard,
to put on a socially
accepted face
and sell yourself
to a prospective
employer.

I’d rather live like T’ao Ch’ien
and rake a garden
in the crisp
Autumn air.


8

At my feet are the remains
of a solitary dove,
so I arm myself with poetry

and enter the fray.