No Country for Old CrittersBein' an owl, I reckon I see most things that other woodland folk are just too blind to see. Can't see the forest for the trees, an' all that. Mostly simple stuff, nothin' worth writin' a book about. But I seen a couple things, mind, as could make a creature ponder its rightful place in the world. I seen a rabbit once't, possessed by the devil (or an adrenal excess) who done broke the nose offen the fox what was chasin' 'im. True, it's an unusual twist to see sich a thing happen, but that weren't nothin' compared to how that same rabbit feller got his nose broke by a female what he done decided to make friendly with. Glories of nature, spring . . . phooey. March madness, that's what it is.
Now, if he's wise, a creature might take a lesson from this here yarn. Might learn somethin' how danger'll getcha most easy in your own backyard. Another might see in this story as how despite all 'pearances no one is ever truly helpless. Me, near as I can figure I jus' reckon as how women is the mos
A Grief ObservedA Grief Observed8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Tiny bits and pieces of you
objects laden with memories of us,
random scents that dig up the past
(the pungent sweet stink of sweat
in the bedsheets from our lovemaking
or the sticky fruit-smell of your shampoo)
still lie around the house,
waiting for me to find them,
waiting to renew my hurt.
A hair of you finds its way
into my hands, clinging to my shirt
(even as you used to cling to my arm),
longing to be
teased, pulled to the limits and broken,
having no living soul attached
to heal it, renew it, and keep its ends
I read C. S. Lewis today.
saw my day and told me
that losing you is like losing a limb,
that losing you is a sickness that accompanies
a kick to the groin.
Prosthesis must play the wallflower,
for only a robust, living organ can pump
vitus nectar to the farthest reaches
of my Self.
Western HaikuWestern Haiku7 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
First-chair violin, playing Canon in D,
Stabs ear drum and violates a masochistic
I rewind, turn up the volume, and tremble
Will there come a time when books of paper are
Completely replaced by electronic plagiarisms?
"No," my boss tells me. But when he grew up,
He didn't have a Kindle or a wi-fi laptop to read
Under the blankets
With a flashlight
After lights-out time.
Coca-cola has appropriated the flavor of vanilla.
It's delicious, cool, and fizzy, and would have been
An aneurism of genius had it not been done
Fifty years ago in drug store soda fountains
And promptly forgotten
Like young George Bailey.
Will I ever find true love?
Never doubt it.
She Dazzles Me...She Dazzles Me...7 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
She Dazzles Me with Sepia Tones of Light
She dazzles me with sepia tones of light
and lets me touch her earthenware brassiere.
The pounding of my blood distorts my sight.
I hesitate, knowing that I must fight
to whisper silver passion in her ear,
but I am dazzled by her sepia light.
She freely shares her warmth when snow falls white.
She offers all, but seeing her shed tears
can freeze my blood and still distort my sight.
Her earthy glance, her eyes, can down my flight
and bury me in worldly cares' veneer
were I not dazzled by her sepia light.
She hears my soulful song and holds me tight
and preens my wounded id and drowns my fear.
The pounding of my blood distorts my sight.
Her earth and body win my lust. I bite
her flesh and drink her in and hold her near,
and still she dazzles me with sepia light.
She stills my blood to give me earthly sight.
To Drown a Rat I met my first rat in São Paulo, Brazil--not in the sticky summer when you wait for your turn to feel the oscillating fan for a few seconds each minute, all night long, but in the cold, sticky winter. Winter in São Paulo (starting in June and humidly freezing its way through August) is the time when you mix flour with rubbing alcohol in a small cereal bowl to burn and heat your room all night, because central heating in Brazil is more ridiculous than Gonçalvo Braga da Silva's jokes that gently skirt humor without bedding it down. "Why did the Hulk's girlfriend dump him? (Pause for comedic timing.) Because she wanted a more experienced man; he was too green." . . . But the rat.To Drown a Rat7 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
He was having a leisurely time in the kitchen late at night, as was his custom, until the guys and I tried to flush him out from behind the butane stove tank with broom handles and other weapons that made us feel safe, as though we were th
Urinal EtiquetteUrinal Etiquette7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
What are you thinking, taking
the stall next to mine? It's pissing me off!
There's no personal-space buffer zone.
Your body heat encroaches
upon me, a vigilante electric blanket.
I'm only looking at you to make sure
you're not peeking at me and my best
friend. From the cradle, we've been joined
at the hip, he and me, surviving Freudian anxieties
and staying up late, telling jokes, sharing a drink
when Susie Davis blocked our hopes as
a roid-raged linebacker might, and
here you come, taking the stall next to mine
when it's clear you could choose any other.
I'll flush you like a bean burrito if you even
think about casually brushing my elbow,
but maybe it was my fault in the first place.
I could have gone one over next to the wall,
but that would've left me checkmated.
There's nothing left for me but to wash my hands
of this urinal, and of your lack of etiquette.
Keep It CoolKeep It Cool7 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
All you swingaz out there
Gotta keep yo'selves alive
Wit' a tiny twist 'a lemon
An' a healthy dose 'a jive.
Keep it cool, daddy-o,
And you can't stop the beat.
Keep it way past cool,
To the tip of the Top Hat.
Biddley-dee da doo-bop,
Zah, da zwee da zoo-bop.
ba, da'dn doo-bop.
Keep it cool, hip cat,
When ya bring yo scat to bat.
Knock it clear out the park,
To the tip of the Top Hat.
PatrocleiaPatrocleia8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i. Letting Patroclus Go
I stand, towering over your head, little one,
Teaching you how to feed yourself
While hiding behind your self.
Smell, smile, a gift of transient emotion.
You refuse to let me feed you,
So I feed you the illusion,
Holding your hand while you hold the spoon.
A glance upward.
How much longer can I keep you like this, pumpkin blossom,
The fiery hair that shares my name?
ii. Sleep by Volition
Gravity makes fools of us all.
You can feel it, down to your very bowels,
Can you not? The postural change,
Pulling you down onto wobbly legs,
Weak ankles that dont support your weight yet.
Ill hold you a different way. Im glad I do,
Im privileged with a rare view.
Light dances on your cheek,
Shadow skips across your eye.
Sleep slowly takes you into her bosom
While I teach you to sleep on mine.
An eye opens, finds itself too weak to support the night,
Then closes, seeing me as if I were
A dream on the lid of the tiny sleeper
Haiku Theory Part 1 -2009-A Lot of Words About A Little PoemHaiku Theory Part 1 -2009-6 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
An Introduction to Haiku Structures
A haiku poem cannot be defined according to the number of syllables and lines it contains (nor by the number of syllables in each line). Although I do not wish to go into the reasons why at this point (I will save that for a later discussion) the form of modern English haiku, as Haruo Shirane writes, is a short poem, usually written in one to three lines. (in Gilbert, 2009) At this point our definition sounds very vague. If the number of syllables and lines do not define a haiku poem, then what does? And if a haiku poem is simply a short one, two or three-line poem then what separates it from other forms of Western short-verse or, in the case of one-line haiku, a sentence?
Patricia Donegan writes, in agreement with the Western haiku community at large, that syllable counting... is not the important thing for haiku in English. Haiku is an experience, not an act of co
Truth, BeautyI died for Beautybut was scarceTruth, Beauty7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Adjusted in the Tomb
When One who died for Truth, was lain
In an adjoining room
He questioned softly Why I failed?
For Beauty, I replied
And Ifor TruthThemself are One
We Brethren, are, He said
And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night
We talked between the Rooms
Until the Moss had reached our lips
And covered upour names
First of all, I cant stress enough that Im not in any way uncomfortable. Im at peace with my life, the way I lived it; Im not at all bothered by the thought of spending eternity staring at the wood above me. Mahogany. I like the sound of thatMahogany . . . How many times could I say Mahogany before the Judgment day when the sea yields up her dead? How many anagrams of Mahogany are possible? I think a hundred sounds like a good goal to shoot for. Hang m
theoretical layersand the snowflakes that hide behind our eyes,theoretical layers6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
as we compress them to close, melting around our hearts,
dampening a too exciting feeling, falling on a cedar tree
from whence we fell, laughing, and I think perhaps
a one-sided heart cracks its own eggs open.
The stones themselves enunciate their praise,
and all, we, tremble to bear upon their steadfastness,
a chivalrous guard against a whiling wind, dead
in a despairing song, tumultuous and contrary
to our living claims, and it is as silent as its name.
I concern over the state of our campfire
as you feed it your life, as it hungers all the while,
as we thirst all the more for the rain to quench
our dirty throats, as we only feel its warmth
as it only takes our own.
and these snowflakes that rest beneath our eyes,
frostily gathered in the corpse of a gaze, understanding
the overstatement of a name that fits as many feet with gloves;
those were the acts that play in the mind's eye,
and quintessential to the tongue, perhaps.
none more exper
Beneath the Begonias(I)Beneath the Begonias8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The detached heads of children are bobbing up,
their lips puckered, expecting kisses.
So slowly they come, bicycling from their alleys,
their pristine cul-de-sacs.
I sit on the window-sill, their makers,
cuckolds and whores running after them, comically --
the neighborhood gathers 'round their collective
bonfire -- they hold papers of their lost one.
It has been days. Whose white gown lies
on my lap, whose smile across my cheek?
They shuffle through their sterling definitions;
they turn up dirt looking for me, casting it aside
Too deep, I am a clamshell buried
farther down. (I hear a whispering above)
I dare not make a sound; soon they will withdraw
their spades, as if finishing surgery.
They seem so fine and neat. Upon an anvil,
they brand the others with letters -- like cattle.
The mud, precise and consistent,
folds itself in with pressure.
Day breaks into night, splitting in a brittle way,
Far AwaySometimes we grow up like this:Far Away6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
gyroscopic, like sunflowers, our faces turning
towards the sun. And the sun is more than a ball
of burning gas. The sun is warm and bright
and alive. And we are warm and bright and alive.
I am no bloom. Wings do not rely
on the kindness of strangers. But sometimes they will tell you
that people arent things you can own.
They will tend to the flowers, they will lean into the garden,
prune dead leaves and reshape
innocent bushes. Their sweat will drip into
your faces, my glittering lilies, my lonely and cynical roses,
and they will tell you how to
come into your own. They will say the world is a
cold and frightening place when you are
far from your home soil. They will pack your roots with compost
and entice you to stay.
Rise from the dirt and move on.
Un.an.tic.i.pat.edUnanticipatedUn.an.tic.i.pat.ed7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Unanticipated, as I showered
today, I watched long black strands of your hair
coil like water snakes toward the drain,
whipping their muscular way
toward the sewer, slipping through
the surge, singing silent songs of entropy
as they left me to cry
over the scent of your shampoo and the pitted
razor blades that did not leave with you
when death came to take you from our house
and, before the kitchen felt
my feet and fingers searching for
routine, before the bed unmade me
more than yesterday, I again
turned down the frames of you Id
set atop the shelves wed hung
to hold memory unanticipated.
Scourgeleaves shuffled alongScourge6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
from breezes gone bitter
across a river
with maternal blood
from my thighs that
with the onset
of autumn, and
of our union-
clay soil darkened
with cooking oil
and human waste
in the dying light
of day and a life
the way summer
only to turn away
EPIC HAIKU QUESTION-A-THON"Just three days behind -EPIC HAIKU QUESTION-A-THON7 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
Better late than never, right?
Have a platypus!" <3
"My friend, your cat is
Flying through the stratosphere,
Chasing flying fish."
Day 2: (Needed two for this one! xD)
"The cake tells untruths
Because it didn't get loved
In its sad childhood.
Its mission in life
Is to deceive others, but
All it wants is love!"
Day 3: (Points if ye get the reference in this one!)
"A wizard's beard is
As precisely as long as
He means it to be!"
Ode to the sweet stuff:
Chocolate has a bash on tongues.
It's better than sex
Ah, Freddie, my dear,
Wherefore comes thy dandiness?
Gotta be the 'stache. <3
Sugar highs are fun,
But won't make your rocket go!
... Er, that came out wrong.
Day 7: (>D THIS ONE NEEDED TO BE A LIMERICK!)
Shalafi doth think it quite fun
To cause madd'ning bunnies to run
For Raist needs no clone,
He kicks ass alone,
Because THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE!
X-Ray eyes see all;
But they still can't see what life
Is really here for.
Loss, in Five Actsi. ReturnLoss, in Five Acts6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Through a dark tunnel
of bent birch and cedar I walk.
Soft moss on cobblestone. Home.
The tilted bird bath drips with
tea coloured rain. Vines snake up
old walls even as the sandstone crumbles.
Decaying gutters sag with sad, welcoming
smiles, heavy with dead leaves
and the fallout of terracotta tiles.
On her lap, in the evening, swinging
on the front porch chair. Humming
a lullaby, she whispers softly and
marks with a brush of her ringless finger,
magpie and minor, chicken and hen
and then, soft kisses on my cheek for bed.
At the bus stop, she is squinting and waving
and waiting. At hometime, she is feeding the
pigeons every last crumb from my lunchbox.
The garden beds sit like unkept graves,
clutching the roots of dead roses. Row after row
of thorny crucifix. Anemic and budless.
Were they red or white or pink?
That memory is dim. Perhaps something
more obscure. Champagne or chartreuse.
A sudden notion. Todays bl
Spring Bash Haiku-thon 31 DaysSpring Bash Haiku-thon 31 Days7 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
My poems will be in the artists comments, for some strange reason - DA will not let me edit the text - so all 31 days will be in this deviation until I can get it figured out! Dang DA sprites....
On a Very Clear DayOn a Very Clear Day7 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
On a very clear day,
the wheel in the sky hides what he knows,
but I still see a very long way.
Truth, found slant in shades of grey
a screen of falling leaves for projecting my family slideshow
on a very clear day.
Freshly-cut bales of hay
crumble against the early onslaught of snow.
I can see a very long way,
can pluck the darling buds of May
when spring is still a gift unbestowed.
On a very clear day,
a scene no artist could portray,
feel our passion ebb and flow
while gazing very far away.
My kingdom for the palette of Monet.
All life breathes, loves, fadesI suppose.
On a clear day,
I can see, see a very long way.
The LispMarietta suspected strongly by the end of the week, but had little opportunity to pinpoint any proof. She spent every spare moment with Henry in the subtle pursuit of slipping him up, jarring the conversation into unexpected turns. Yes became a rather indifferent okay or alright, no matter how many different ways she managed to ask for affirmation. He veered around plurals and possessives as if they were road kill.The Lisp7 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
How many balloons are there? she asked.
Eight, said Henry.
Not seven? It looks to me like there are seven.
Henry stiffened but didnt back down. Huh. I thought I noted one more.
You mean you thought you spotted it? Saw it, maybe? Noticed it, even?
Henry tied the balloons to the chair and turned to face her.
I didnt note it, he said.
And that was the end of that.
Marietta wondered if she was the only one to detect
Haikuthon July 2009Haikuthon July 20096 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
gnarled tree roots
stretch down into the pond
resting for a spell
a thousand flags
whip in the wind
praying for profits
in the cool building shadow
in the distance
beyond the looming storm —
hint of orange dusk
a golden half-moon
hangs near distant streetlights
amid gentle rapids
an old tire
over waves of tall
Dying Changes EverythingClouds and pearly gates,Dying Changes Everything7 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
I dream of sailing
into the west.
stop the clocka sea of houses comes rolling instop the clock6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
rusty roofs bending
shingles popping like fireworks
(expressing their independence, they die)
while you and I
(nothing more than genetic flotsam, now)
turn our eyes from a shattered-glass snowfall
and dream of the winters of our youth
this will be the end of days
this will be clouds folding into the earth
thunderstorms growling from foxholes
rain tumbling from rivers
as a clumsy conflagration stumbles into our skin
stealing our silhouettes
painting our ghosts on walls
(oh, had only we learned such passive resistance)
as you and I
(only numbers and figures, we know)
truly wear our hearts on our sleeves
when the world turns inside out
when sandcastles swirl into mountains
only to melt and flatten
until the rock has no wrinkles
when flowers shrink into their stems
like amateur stop-animation
when grass stalks and grandchildren
twist ever upward into smoke
and I no longer have any metaphors
for what the world made me love about yo