April is Poetry...2025

Day 18

Summer Solstice/Haiku Chain

Frozen sky-fire

some crazy bird wakes early

catches its beak on
sunlight so tall, I

consider taking pictures.

A line of red ants

intrude. Undaunted

I pour another poem

into the Big Sun.

(c) 2025 Tovli

Day 16

Ode to Time: as it erases, as it begins

How you save my life through quiet, night cover

sun, moon, stars…never diminish,

grow hands or move the clock so strangely

time is dismembered, even forgotten.

The air separates, grows cold,

darkening our skies until no rainbow is necessary.

Earth is oddly beautiful, older than ever,

having outlived the universe for no reason.

Yet the new child looks inward,

accepting portraits of distance and anticipation.

Falling against a cold breeze is birth,

or the closing of one eye, if only for a moment.

As winter speaks, no one recalls who lived.

Last summer was merely the edge of a mountain.

We looked up, absorbed in blindness.

Spring starts well but grows summer dust too quickly.

In winter, time loses weight.

No one looks through a window and feels hungry.

Instead, there’s bedtime.

There are quiet, soft thoughts that breathe out a poem.

Light subtracted, gains an hour.

Winter and fall, unabridged.

I could stay forever, even claim words not my own,

take them with me walking, everywhere I go.

Day 14

Monologue: Mold Blooms On The As-Yet-Unwritten Poem

word surround
who hears

touches…talks aroma

a word repeated?

poet’s delicate hand

one long fingernail and nothing to say

no fire, no blood.

dawn should happen, but before
dreaming from darkened water.

remnants with dialogue, furry edges,

no less a monologue discussing reincarnation,

simple words offering

coins earned from the collective farm

complaints, dis-ease, and flattery. You know!

myself. myself. myself.

how they look now. new citizenship.

what race? whose mirror?

cover the sick room and light incense.

when it happens…just leave

a sky no more

but fight for the word

the story, the poem

someone’s occupation---cure osteo-compliance.

new flag; reassigned colors…

in solidarity, burn grammar,

forget iambic pentameter

it has nothing to do with America

write stiff-jointed, untaxed endings,

celebrate arthritis—the new language.

bones were broken but healed.

believe what ends, or

following the century’s best plague—

just make something up—

start over—

this time, some clever universe

planning a cute revolt.

Day 17

Bloom and Root

I limit age. She told the over-self.

I was 100.

I carried trouble caught in someone else's teeth.

I gave tribute. She planned to travel.

I told you where it came from.

I told you of beginnings. Noisy, she lost her place.

I think in arrears. She discovered nothing ever remains.

I am ageless.

I listen for whispers traded between strangers.

I give honor. She hears it all.

I tell you where it all belongs.

I tell you of endings. Voiceless, she writes it all down.

Day 15

New Year Resolution Parody

This year: write 365 poems

• Poems must be Bluetooth-compatible
• Secure a Poetry Homeland via X
• Poetry-makeup: apply black lipstick and rouge to each poem
• Only vegan poems count
• Poems must be decaffeinated
• No latte or flat-white wannabe poems
• Establish a poem machine (seek a patent)
• Short poems should not include consonants
• All poems should practice multi-culturalism
• Design poem algorithms that ensure political correctness
• Provide every poem with its own tee-shirt design
• Bullet poems should not be provided weapons
• Each poem should have an expiration date
• Poetry must comply with the present tense
• No poems should practice meditation or kundalini
• Poems must have a Fitbit compatible with Google Wallet
• No poem should sing irrelevant civil-right-songs
• Poems should not be visually impaired
• Poems should be categorized using Alexa standards

Recognize it is almost impossible to wake a poem up in the morning. Still, this requires compliance. You must wake this year’s poetry up; however, be advised, once aroused, they often bolt from their front doors like deranged raccoons, expecting handouts. Just be sure when they leave their humble abodes for the first time in the new year, they are wearing properly designed kimonos. No sane poet wants to ruin a perfectly good year by unleashing vulgar poetics into the streets early each morning, or even late at night.

In closing, be a poet and plan for a good year.

Tovli (c) 2025

Day 13

Inheritance Poem

if alone

there’s shape darkened for memory,

your eyes, especially a heavy nose,

warmth from the palm of your hands.

from there you’ll imagine

the evening of childhood,

when all things inherited

were exchanged, written as Poem.

once again

i’ve nothing to offer,

just a broken vein, moments in time—

something to mend.

Day 12

Skinny Poem Time-Change Rant

Form created by Truth Thomas

Governmental bluster: time change-up.

blah…

Majority.

Sunburn.

Minority.

blah…

Compliance.

Moonburn.

Insubordination.

blah…

Change-up time? Governmental bluster!

(c) Tovi 2025

Day 11

How to Write a Blue Haiku

A splinter of what blue sky,

with whose label is skin for the back of your hand?

It’s your place to write extra small things:

i. e.
you let syllables plummet to earth

you vibrate the sky ice blue

you terrorize night noise until a soft fade rises

you are never deficient in compilation

you are the shape of blue shadows

you become a spur puncturing clouds

you from unknown insight—dream haiku as frost

as soon as it’s named

the haiku will cry blue

all over the bones of your table.

Tovli (2025)

Day 10

Gogyohka Tribute to Richard Brautigan

"All of us have a place in history. Mine is clouds." R. Brautigan

This haiku-talking Hare-Krishna dude called, and asked,
“Remember Richard Brautigan?”
I had to think in short sentences, but answered: "As poet or novelist?"
“Doesn’t matter, he’d have called today’s sky, Mocha Mousse.”
“Possibly...didn’t he end his days caught up in some girl's yellow hair?”

(Tovli (c) 2025)

Day 8

For The Siblings

You grew.

I am lessened.

Let’s calculate each slice of us.
Real siblings must be dependable.

I couldn’t live your way.

I live in secret places.

I am tapering, unmixed.

But you’ve never lived like that.

Does it matter if I am the secret?

Does it matter if you know where I am?

I left because I did.

I had no place to be.

I have no arrival planned.

I am anywhere you want me to be.

For the sake of my siblings,

I tell a storybook, happy life.

When I look backward no one has died yet.

When I find you, all medicine is practical.

Please don’t cry, when I send you poems.
I’m just breathing. Still alive.

I breathe what I’ve lived.

I am less now than before.

It’s a real feeling. Dependable.

I witnessed each birth.

I am the secret
who can answer any question asked.

Day 9

A Blitz Poem--form created by Robert Keim

Brainstorm with Color

the color is black

the cover of light

light like falling feathers

light so transparent

transparent as wind

transparent words

words have color

words teach love

love cries blue

love is sharp

sharp like thorny-pink

sharp and intentional

intentional life-stories

intentional breath

breath that dies

breath that lives

lives permanently

lives temporary

temporary landscapes

temporary poems

poems with colors

poems in crayon

crayon rainbow

crayon skies

skies that sparkle

skies of sapphire

sapphire as color

sapphire as stone

stone as confusion

stone as grey

grey is the color

grey belongs

belongs in perplexity

belongs to war

war is a rosy lung

war inhales

inhales the rain

inhales the wonder

wonder is overrated

wonder is discretion

discretion is confused art

discretion is a depressed poet

poet cries orange

poet is absent

absent like white light

absent as darkness

darkness from air

darkness written

written

air

(c) Tovli 2025

Day 7

The Classroom in Darkness

I dreamed about kindergarten--

our classroom in darkness.

Long dismantled, reduced to seed,

the night air providing a graceful hand,

closing doors, securing each window from the inside.

All motion, silk-like.

The children’s god sat cross-legged,

writing the morning prayer,

filling the mouth of the world with letters,

one after the other.

It was a great dream. But why return to a child’s classroom?

In fact, once awake, I’d forgotten the prayer,

but couldn’t forget the writing on the chalkboard,

or the soft heat escaping through ceiling pipes,

or an undergrowth of children about to begin,

yet thankful in anticipation of endings.

Weird dream. They all are.

But it was nice: one night, all alone

I returned to a place where G-d fell asleep,

while meditating.

A nice finish. Then again, what do I know?

Maybe every window that old lady kindergarten teacher

tried to unlock slowed down the ending,

sped up commencement.

Maybe that’s what darkness arranges, late at night.

It was like any dream. Once upon a time, it probably did happen.

At least I hope so.

Frankly, it’s all I have left of long days,

cohorts, storybooks,

and short, dark nights.

Day 6

Gigul

And think about wings.

Or, the quiet soul, abruptly created.

You again?

No. Just me.

The burnt, exact shape of many connecting circles.

Were you here?

Were you standing by the door,

planning to leave?

I was.

I am leaving.

And, not to mention,

I was here long before

a curious influence reached me.

Such softness of voice…

…something about wings and floating upward

all at once.

Day 5

Patience! But dawn comes:

Experiencing the Writings of Paul Brunton

Just before death, the library was anarchy:

mountains of books, fifty per box.

It was one hell of a garage sale.

Even your cats were auctioned off.

“You ask me why should I stay on this blue mountain.

I smile but do not answer. O, my mind is at ease.”

(Li Po 8th Century Chinese Poet)

Bow. Like this:

Face down. Eyes to the sky.

No one knows who’ll resurrect the library

or when it might re-open.

Readers change.

Poets close their dictionaries.

Never return to a finished poem.

It’s dead. It has succumbed to life elsewhere.

Likewise, don’t knock too long on a closed door.

First, let the library quiet down.

Await an ending as if reading a poet's last stanza

is all that counts.

Life remains. Deathless. Unbound.

We shall meet again.

I know what you are.

Be free.

Wait. There you are!

An obsessed young man with glasses.

I recognized you in a second.

You wanted so much to live inside my book—

a magic talisman re-writing the last word

and, rightfully so.

Day 3

Haiku Chain

Demure, or just coy,

he pressed his hand into mine

and took the car keys.

What would happen next?

A rainbow splintered the sky.

Polarization!

Internet brain-rot?

Or throat-stuck pen-strokes. Dark charm.

Gimme back those keys!

Day 2

Dad’s Day

Dad. Can I help?

My face shines, hopeful.

No answer.

I travel far into the sky of his eyes

delivering commotion, and interference.

He’s given up on me.

He’s let go of history.

Clever, how I stand there, speechless.

Quiet, forever.

Yet something still dances, inside my every-story.

Day 1

The Nursing Home Room

In the pastel light

of this never-ending indoor people-garden

there’s a woman gulping air, mouth wide, eyes fixed.

She’s always in our snapshots— those last memories archived,

so we won’t forget you outlived yourself.

Although there’s more silence with each visit,

you never succumbed to air-swallowing.

Tears gentled your eyes,

but there were no more words.

When tears drip gentle,

is it from the same formula

that caused the missing magic card

to rise unexpectedly from your clenched fist?

I finally had to ask

but in the end,

it would have been better if I’d never learned words.

Silence reduces the need for perfection.

That established, can you imagine my surprise,

when Gulping-Woman suddenly exhaled,

turned to you, and despite your silence, asked,

as clear as a morning prayer:

“Are you my little brother, our mother’s last child,

the one who died at birth?"

What a memory—

the only thing I could possibly add to your life

once you’d left the planet.

Day 4

Backyard Secrets

What beauty. Sun. Tranquility.

Tree fort. A swing, broken,

yet still bound to the fat, moss-smeared limb.

Grandpa’s here. Somewhere.

The ache. It returns.

Kind faces, strong bodies.

Lies. Weapons.

Mounds of dirt and tufts of wilderness grass.

Nightfall. And still…the vision,

ineffable in memory.

It stalks. It conflicts—

different from one dark night to the other.

Everyone’s wounded.

Yet pride is honed, fearlessly.

Minor grievances are seldom described as they happened.

Yet bones were broken.

They remained sharp, like old knives.

They tear through flesh.

They’ve written dead names adjacent to property lines,

just inside obligatory boundaries.

No one ever noticed buried skeletons,

backyard horrors, identities left inside jacket pockets.

A misplaced postcard, for example.

But dried eyes, planted in their bone

burn through the earth.

It was horrific.

Eventually?

We all just left. One by one.

The children’s backyard:

quiet wonders, pages fulfilled,

picture books and clever fairy tale anthologies.

Many smiles. Blackened fingernails.

Not one returns. No one stays behind.

Despite warmth—daylight sprayed like cigar smoke—

Grandpa’s deed has passed on and on,

one generation into another.

“Kids. There’s oil in your backyard. It’s deep.

It’s rich in minerals. We have proof.

Don’t let them tell you otherwise.

Just cash the cheques and get along.”

Family genetics?

There’s always a funeral about to take place.

The need for free food, a buffet with Canadian Club

and Diet Coke chasers.

We loved you, Grandpa.

We forgot where we buried you.

It may have been the children’s backyard.

It may have been near the swing or tree fort.

There’s nothing more devastating than a family

burying what no longer matters;

the land, no longer theirs.

Observe:

some little memory, a gentle, optimistic lover.

Just one night together.

Someone or thing hidden, so deeply,

no one could ever find it again.

ТОВЛИ СИМИРЯН

ПРОИЗВЕДЕНИЯ ТОВЛИ

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April is Poetry...2025

Day 12

Skinny Poem Time-Change Rant

Day 6

Day 5

Day 3

Day 2

Day 1

Day 4