In twilight fields the blue monk wanders softly,
Eyes like the dusk that trembles in silence,
Whispers of warning drift through the tall wheat,
Shadows awake.
In empty halls, behind the tiles of the bathroom,
He leans, one-eyed, where children fear and falter,
A glimpse of his gaze, a chill through the quiet,
Spirit of blue.
Through mountains high, he tests the overconfident,
A sumo match tossed by hands of the hidden,
Strength in his frame belies his humble form,
God in disguise.
Spin by the pine, and hear him warn the careless,
“Do not break stone, do not snap the old branches,”
Blue priest of the night, the field, and the house,
Ever returns.
-
Author:
Matthew R. Callies (
Offline) - Published: April 6th, 2026 02:23
- Comment from author about the poem: This poem is about the aobōzu, a yōkai from Japanese legend. For more context visit https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aob%C5%8Dzu
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 8
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
- In collections: Heroes, Gods and Monsters.
Offline)
Comments2
A good write about what many would consider the mythical story. It seems we as people require myths to build our culture and knowledge. Nicely done
Matthew, there’s a quiet, shifting presence here…moving from field to house to mountain, never fully defined but always felt. That image behind the tiles anchors it in the everyday, and the sense of warning carries through. It unsettles without needing to shout. Well done. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.