Resting on a Lilypad

20 Mar

In the year of the Pig …

Next to flowering peach trees, I took my stance with hands clenched.
Five paces away, a masked ninja set itself hooded in black silk.
Nearby, a splash, as an agile frog propelled itself into padded lily-pond.
Leaping toward the black figure, I launched, spinning my awkward drunken dance.

The misty purple mountain to the east wore a dark hat flashing low rumbles.
Mushrooming thunderheads billowed above Mt. Hengshan, stirring the four winds.
Our impact was a small thunderclap, and I landed a glancing blow, it vanished…
Drizzle began adorning the trees with diamonds,

    lightning, a pause… CRACK…I looked…

It’s said of the parrot, it is a cunning bird able to hide openly in a fruiting branch.
A master of imitation, mimicking any voice without the need to interpret meaning.
Ghost-like, the spidery ninja crept near, it sprang up kicking my cheek, countering, I spun away…
Alarmed, the painted clown flew to the top of another tree, chattering beaked rebukes.

Staring at me, this Shinobi stealth fighter crouched shimmering silken-black in the rain,
Intrepid, I am a drunken wushu master; Kung-Fu intoxicates me with illusive slurred movements.
Abruptly, sun-beams poked, flooding holes through the clouds, quickly melting them away.
The kunoichi ninja stepped back and bowed; I bowed too.  It was over – for we both knew the truth…



© Brian Hodgkinson Jr. (aka) The Limericist 2008

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Posted by on March 20, 2021 in Poetry



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