haikuwrimo - July 20081st July 2008haikuwrimo - July 20087 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
of wandering moths
and I, the moon
2nd July 2008
one glance away
she is gone
3rd July 2008
in the office
oh, a ring
4th July 2008
twilight - damned electric fence
5th July 2008
6th July 2008
dreaming of scissors
7th July 2008
how many have sheltered
beneath this oak?
8th July 2008
all this rain
and still the grass
9th July 2008
the maintenance crews
10th July 2008
the five second rule
11th July 2008
day off -
staying in bed
until late o'clock
12th July 2008
13th July 2008
she asks, standing
14th July 2008
and still not walking
15th July 2008
the crow inspects
16th July 2008
The long road home - RenkuBefore the dawnThe long road home - Renku8 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
my shoes are tied tight
to clean feet
the crunching of gravel
in his bed
a lonely pillow
in her arms
a bundle of flowers
laying in the grass
and the lake is lit
an old man passes by
carrying a chess board
along the way
a blackbird protests
the high tide of dew
recedes into hedge shadows
testing its wings
as the train
slips by the tenements
on a stone wall
slugs follow paving lines
she watches the tom cat
with one hand on her hip
while the kids
play stick ball in the streets
this summer evening
the wasps' nest rolls well
but makes a poor football
left at a bus stop
twenty years ago
she could have stopped traffic
on a streetlamp
the magpie and woodpigeon
but no romance
young man with an ipod
picks up on the chorus
forming a line
people wait to see
an ogre and a donkey
in the alleyway
the rats nibble popcorn
from a window
Triple SatTriple Sat: Three Tables in Three ActsTriple Sat5 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
Triple Sat (Verb): A restaurant term where a host/hostess seats three tables consecutively to one server. The server, while still smiling politely, runs around frantically trying to be in three places at once. It's not pretty, the guests feel like they received bad service, and usually said host/hostess gets cursed at behind his or her back for the rest of the night. This also comes in other forms such as "double sat", a frustrating but manageable situation, and "quad sat", which means find a manager for help A.S.A.P. and cross fingers the host/hostess loses his or her job.
Other things to take note of: serving is judging the tables. The last time you visited a restaurant you might have been judging the server, but rest assured the server was judging you. You are just what they happen to catch when they are at your table or walking by. I serve, observe, and fulfill, but never get attached. I rarely catch a custo
Haikuthon July 1-31, 2009Haikuthon July 1-31, 20096 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
the hope of
summer rain vanishes
a neighbor's dog
to water the roses
heat wave chasing
all the birds and blues
from the sky
a cloud of gnats
a child's sno-cone
the petting zoo
old mission archway
black birds napping
in ascending order
lunch at the beach,
and wade into
looking out to sea
the sky walks a fine line
7 haiku renga
on the breakwater...
fishermen and gulls
under the pier
bait in a plastic pail
holding their breath
still seeking shade,
mating crabs in the shallows
the tang of sea air,
rot of a morning's catch
in my nostrils
the old sea dog
with his mutt
scans the boardwalk
at crack of dawn
jellyfish in the
seaweed washing ashore
beyond the breakers,
and a buoy bobbing
sailing into dusk
a window opena window opena window open9 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
to breathe in love
the cricket's serenade
Re-enactmentRe-enactment9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
After the gale
all the woods are smashed, but the house - unscratched.
The air is humbled but his parents fret
as the boy seems humbled too:
Lips chewed tight
Eyes scared open
To break the funk they drive him down to the beach
where children splash and frolic in the exhausted swell.
The bay is scattered with twigs leftover from the storm's meal
and he ignores the boys and the sea
to collect these discarded crumbs.
Stabbing them into sand
he builds a copse,
then a forest.
Last night he gaped from his window
As the swirling monster
Grabbed the trees
And swallowed them in savage bites
Before spitting them out at jag
Inside the LinesThey arrange in rows, vibrating,Inside the Lines6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
calculating the first move.
Decked each in bright colors, look at me
look at me, hi mom, do you see
sunlight glinting from glinting places
around a hundred faces, flush with nervous
waiting, and watching for the signal,
and it comes with raised arm and a sharp stroke
down, and down the rows the thunder rolls,
and so begins
the first movement.
Portraits - VIIPortraits - VII9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Portraits - VII
A yellow matte of hair
tangled with worry
an earthen-smudged face, cute
but for the constant frown
too sad for just ten years.
The little girl sits, plays
in the dirt front yard
with a brittle tree-bone
that continually breaks under
the weight of her solitude.
A picture of a family—
even a stick-brother
all standing hand in hand
under a sickly stick-sun;
a secret letter to Santa
drawn in the mud.
OrangesOrangesOranges9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Thinking themselves thieves, they feed
on the ripe as the cart owner on the highway
fingers peels, rinds, forgotten leaves and listens
to the voices of his customers like moving cars.
To articulate herself she keeps the cream
in one hand and licks the rust off her
once black kettle. The tea is waiting
on the counter to be drowned as she says to him:
Let me live in my ashes.
Her echolalia says: scissors, sliver as the image
of diseased pigeon wings echoes on her eyelids.
Twenty years of echolalia.
There is a boy who lives in his own palms,
collecting teeth from the children who fight.
At six o'clock he wonders what he is going to do
with the rest of his life knowing:
Words are not worth the time.
He will wake up one day with crushed petals
in his teeth from his mother's prized gardenias.
The gardenias tell the silent boy's mother
stories of noise and white noise. They slip
her nightmares like a
GeishaGeisha9 years ago in Erotic More Like This
The smells of perfume and incense rake at the air. My hair flows down my back, no longer prim. I stand over the body of my lover. He is looking up at me, bewildered. A muted gurgle escapes his lips. He draws his last breath. I fix my hair. I reapply makeup. For what? Revolution.
Six WordsMy walls are ice; yours, steam.Six Words8 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
with her eyesshe undressed him-with her eyes1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
crept up beneath his shirt as a loft breeze
and allowed the wind to swallow their unnecessary layers
letting her fingers be wary she grazed his marble slab skin
pirouetted atop his collarbones
threw her full self into a tour jeté,
floating along his abdomen
and landed atop his belt buckle.
silently she slipped her palms
(eager with sweat)
beneath his jeans
and nested her head at his chest
to find his pulse thrumming,
parallel to hers.
her hunger began insisting through the pores of her skin,
flooding out in an attempt to feed.
she glanced at him, beneath him, onto him and into him.
her eyes submerged in his honey skin and she inhaled a heavy breath,
and as he finally looked into her eyes she-
rushed to turn her gaze, embrassed he had caught her staring.
Elven ImmigrantsBenny was complaining about elves again. It'd become a bi-weekly ritual for us. We'd meet for lunch, he'd sit there and cram his sandwich in his mouth, talking between every bite as soon as his mouth was clear enough to give his tongue room to work, and I'd dutifully turn my attention to my soup of the day and salad and pretend to care. I liked to think I'd gotten used to his vitriol. I liked to think I'd gotten used to all of it, the graffiti, the snide talking heads on the television, the internet hate groups. The vandalism at the shelter where I worked. We had to put up security cameras. I'd been threatened with a knife once, in the parking lot, until Deregyth came out and broke the man's wrist. I had been too shocked to move. The aged elf just watched the man flee, clutching his wrist, stumbling in his terror and haste to get away, and then the elf turned and his narrow eyes regarded me for a brief moment. Impassive.Elven Immigrants1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
dead godswalking quietly, alone, from room to room,dead gods5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I am a ghost and a bird, alighting on one golden bow
and then nothing at all.
I am a wanderer though it has been written
that I will pause for the sound of strings in hallways
and for a moment my spectral chest may smolder,
my eyes may darken, searchlights flickering back to life,
and like a moth to flame I will gravitate to your warmth.
though it has been written I was a sacrifice,
that I was golden before you cast your shadow on my
clarity and led me to Deaths bedroom.
I was your sacrifice, yes, and you,
you were the blade kissing its steel profanities
into the temple of my chest.
and by the time the coins were all back in the pot of my mouth,
the silk bolts of my spine realigned,
I was an idol destroyed, molten gold boiling from revered calf
to a white thing in the earth.
and in the dust of my cult, her fingers will write how fragile
we are without hearts and bones,
how we are not but lights and memory
and a ghost walking barefo
Strawberries By Sunset.Admire--Strawberries By Sunset.7 years ago in Scraps More Like This
the halcyon of wind carries
away from golden acres
on which blossoms my treasure
bush-cradled until prosperity.
the hush valley whispers
poetry under sheets
necking a residuum evenfall
in which our ghosts remain
kissing strawberries by sunset.
interstellar lullabyi.interstellar lullaby2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
call it what you will,
be it minutes or hours of
or babylon’s legacy
passed down in stories and legends,
word of mouth or the slightest touch
the blood of the fables,
flow throughout your veins,
trailing down your arms to your wrists,
tips of your digits rearing your claws,
tearing black holes into infinity,
as your vision looks to leave your own tale,
in this ocean of emptiness.
tide’s out, and it’s been that way for awhile now-
but honey, tides don’t move in the middle of the desert,
you have to build them to flow between rooftop jungles
and hope they’re as good as the originals,
because that’s as close as you’ll ever get
so drown in the sweet smell of silk road smoke,
and bright spices welcoming you to sin city
then it finally hits you,
like a spacecraft crashing down to earth
carrying extraterrestrials and connivance.
the origin may never be duplicated,
but you’re not shooting for zenith wi
Bipolari am done with patienceBipolar2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and its deadening face.
i want what spills
out of her eyes when the waves crash
against the shore;
and the shrieking
i want that too,
banging against my spine.
and maybe i'll ripen and burst
falling from the tree
ready to ride on the back of windy days
audacious and free.
But in absence of the heartBut in absence of the heart10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I don't want elongated days
or shadows that curve & stalk round corners
or even segmented hours,
the next one unattainable.
I never look too far forward
in fear of
the second after eternity
and then nothing will go to plan.
Atop a hill that whispers to the clouds
there lies valleys only seen from here,
valleys usually pathways trodden
to see this monstrous mound
(and not so deep at all).
And gloomy seas set in feathered cliffs,
the rocks are sharp to touch
but from the shore
are statuesque and sculpted
by indecisive tides
that tease my toes
in knowledge they have seen the hidden seabed
& I have not.
I wonder if the deeper sand
is swished around like the sand upon the shore
never here or there
or sometimes taken away
& never seen again.
There are no stories to be told
with each survivor engulfed
and persuaded (only by distance)
to ensure they are secrets kept.
Or if the grains of sand between my toes
have seen it all
but dare not speak
ChimesA bird,Chimes2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and the edge of winter. There are no signs.
I'm tired of this, the searing and the splitting,
metal on metal. I'm tired of myths. Won't you just be beside me,
be still? Let me picture you, just for a moment. Divine
concentration, that's all you take. Don't ask.
Living never felt natural.
But here we are, trying-
All for this one second,
this one flash of perfection. It's tricky
to be a person. I can never get the balance right,
and the seasons are a quilt,
heavy like a sand, damp
faces. Where is your voice, is it
beneath the soft song of the quiet? Your words,
did I make them?
The Desert WarI didn't think what I was doing could be called tomb robbing, for there were no bodies to be found. Just layers of dust and sand, accumulated over a hundred years of abandonment, covering what furniture remained intact with a blanket of grime. It sat in thick piles in archways and along the edges of the narrow corridors, where the wind echoed mournfully along the pale stones before dying away completely. There were no traps here, no wards, just the feel of old magic. Mages had built this place, yet there were no defenses. This civilization had fallen quickly, then. Yet, there were no bodies. Not even bones. I expected there to be at least bones.The Desert War2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
There were riches to be had here. I found them scattered about, there, in a room I thought must have belonged to a woman, again in a vault, and some littered among other personal effects left as if the owners would return tomorrow. I took a gold bracelet for myself, but nothing more. Gold was heavy, and I was here for a different sort of treasu