Dark, chilly, and rainy all day.  Perhaps it was a day like this when Ono no Komachi wrote

Falling, the long rain,

the color from the flower,

the eye through the world.

A tanka that I've managed to render as a haiku.  In Chinese literature two people separated in space are connected by their gazing at the same moon.  Perhaps, separated in time from Komachi and her original readers, we can make a similar connection with them through contemplation of an instance of the same phenomenon that Komachi pondered. 

9/11/11: REWRITTEN ALL THESE TEN YEARS AND NEVER RIGHT

Bomb them with Bud Lite.

Fill their skies with holograms of Vanessa del Rio.
Jam their transmissions with Bishop Sheen, Soupy Sales, Madalyn Murray,
and Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.
Drop Burqas over them from attack helicopters.
Put up posters of their ankles in every post office.
When they surrender, send them Care Packages from    
     schoolboys and schoolgirls filled with centerfolds and Business Suit
     Barbies.
Take wounded prisoners to Drs. Johnson, Hanson, Jansen,
     Habib, and Horowitz.
Staff POW camps with Hindus and Buddhists and Free Methodists
     who guarded their local mosques.
Torture them with the home movies of the Trade Center dead.
Offer them my library card if they talk.
Bomb them with Bud Lite.
We'll keep the High Life.

AT THE LAUNDERMAT, READING WANG WEI'S "PASSING THE TEMPLE OF TEEMING FRAGRANCE"

Not wandering on cloud peaks
or through ancient, pathless forests,
as easy here to pass it by,
watching the comforter whirl
in the porthole of the commercial machine.
As hard to hear the temple bell
in the multidryer hum.
As easy, just as easy, to sit
and pacify the poison dragon of the heart

SAILING INTO SOUTH LAKE

South Lake is the sum of three rivers.
Mount Lu is the master of all hills.
White sand cleans the river course.
Green pines color the crag heads.
When did the water begin to flow?
When did the mountain begin to be?
Human fate is ever changing.
These forms are alone enduring.
In all the nearness and distance of the cosmos,
present becomes past; this order lasts.
    --Chang Fangsheng, my tr.

TO AN OLD FRIEND LOST IN TIBET

Lost, a whole army,

        before the gates of a city,

the year before last

        fighting the Yuezhi.

Lost, the torn, scattered tents,

        with no one to collect them.

There were only the tattered banners

        on horses straggling back.

Lost, any news of you,

        along the way from Tibet.

What offerings can I make

        if your fate is unknown?  

Lost, you and I to each other,

        whether or not you still live.

I offer these tears

        from far, far away.

          --Zhang Ji, my tr.  

This road here runs

     up to white clouds.
Spring is as long
     as the clear stream.
At times fallen petals
     float by,
flowing off
     on scented water.
My door idles
     on the mountain path.
My study's deep
     in willow shade;
my sleeves, sunlit
     on sunny days.
       --Liu Shenxu, my tr.

ON THE RIVER, I SAW THE WATERS SURGING LIKE THE OCEAN: A SKETCHY ACCOUNT

I have always been peculiar,
      driven by love of well-wrought verse.
Seeking a word of startling rightness,
      I'd sooner die than rest.
In my reckless old age,
      my words and I overwhelm each other.
So you needn't fear, birds and flowers,
     for the secrets of your spring.
Just now, I've put in a pier
      to dangle a fishing line from.
Before, I was angling from an anchored raft
      in place of a boat.
Who could I get with the mind of a master
      like Tao or Xie
to help out with my writing
      and wander the nearby world with me?
--Du Fu, my tr.