Looking up
3 Haiku poems
I’m looking upward
the fresh yellow buds of Spring
promising future.
Spring buds appearing
framing a sweet blue sky
viewed when slipped on mud.
Spring buds remind me
winter work is done for now
start planting flowers!
Prompt Two (2): Recipe For Procrastination
Recipe For Procrastination
Ingredients:
- Active mind
- A sense of laziness
- A love of naps
- Insomnia
- Some bursts of depression
- Too much to do
- Not enough to do
- Easily bored
- Aging
Take your active mind and mix it with too much to be done … for everyone else, usually … and a touch of perfectionism from your early years. You must be have experienced no longer having enough to do because you are retired or are in full menopause, with only a few hot flashes, retired and/or just no longer care.
You do not hate your sense of laziness, unless it means a burst of depression. Which may be a symptom of menopause from years ago. But, I guess it’s better than that bloody mess every freaking month. Or wait, naps are better and better each day. Maybe insomnia is not an issue if you can nap?
Here’s that active mind, and slower moving, achy body which can add to insomnia. A sense of laziness is fair; I mean, there was definitely too much to do then. Not to mention the cramps and sore breasts. Now, they just sag and feel, if anything . . . bored.
Sex? What’s that? Nah, a nap sounds better. Do it tomorrow.
A Night To Fight
In a dark starry night,
And the stars infinite,
The moon was not upright
And the shadow, not very bright
After the flickering twilight,
There was a sunrise.
Although the glimpse was slight
And the feeling of fright,
What I saw was a lovely sight.
In the shining sunlight,
Although the kiss was just right
The heart engraved in wood
Still gives me a fright!
Gold Stone
He wrapped tightly wound coils around his fingers
Smoothing the frayed kinks with his thumb
His eyes, like blue goldstone, sparkled
Tiny, gold flecks glittered as sunlight poured into the room
Flooding his face with a magical glow
As if his face was a gift from the Old Gods
Left on my doorstep
His lips, shaped like the perfect bow
Soft and dark
Were the ribbons that I got to unwind
The tip of his ochre nose
Was the thin piece of tape
That, when I touched it just right
Released the gift of his smile and a full-bodied laugh
That reverberated on the surface of my skin
I could stay like this
Counting the almost black freckles
Scattered across his cheeks
Until my breath became weak
And my mind began to fade
But I wouldn’t
Because the thought of existing without him
Whether here or somewhere else in time and space
Filled me with a sadness I never knew existed
Yes, I could survive it
But question was
Would I want to?
Babies Meet Trees
baby grand-
daughters staring
at the sky
boughs so high
above their round heads.
the first in Oz
snug in Dad’s arms
her rapt stare
her newborn hair
ruffling in the breeze.
the second
in CORVID Gotham
a stolen hour
a leafy bower
leaves whisper in her dreams.
(Lorine Niedecker invented this 5-line form, inspired by haiku.)
Smokey Mountains
Golden roads curve through
Golden hills of autumn grass
Glinting, golden, in the Indian summer sun
Warm air whistles through
Warm, blonde locks of hair
While warm smiles shine on everyone
Cool air captured by misty mountains
Cool cars winding around roads
Chill cool girls driving convertibles
And it’s the sunrise the next morning that melds everything
A pinch of me(a collage of all images).
A silly fool’s foolish heart carved; thoughts often scattered, but never torn apart.
Narcissism, the bearable kind;
a relatively non-foggy intelligent mind.
Sunshine both from the morn and noon, twilight hues and not a minute too soon.
Drizzles, downpours, floods and fall, drench my soul, they take my all,with an umbrella in hand.
Trees greet each other;
Moonlight and stars;
of course all the cliched romance of Venus with Mars.
Music better be, the soul stirring kind,
to trigger memories that are often hard to find.
No dearth of giggles and tears,
nothing to hide, the laughter or the fears.
A girl first, a woman always, so many roles,
so many masks with grace.
Mountains gray, dreams of gold,
growing up a lot harder than simply growing old.
Drops of dew; a morning anew, take my hand,
let’s leave footprints in the sand.
Living moments, far and few, complete with a pinch of me, incomplete without pinch of you…
Curiosity
If I remember nothing else
About childhood it’s what happens
After my bedtime
The idea that I missed out
On some unknown world
Frustrated me
Now of course I count
The restless hours
I do sleep
And laugh
So long a child’s curiosity
Show Your Bones
Writing poetry onto umbrellas
Is easy to do: words in spirals, shapes and swirls.
Written by pen, indelible, like art itself.
In pubs and cafes around the cities North and South,
collecting umbrellas from establishments,
gains curiosity among the staff,
and for a moment something new,
breaks into the everyday.
Brollies left in squares and street corners
as a silent, secret, exchange
the mystery of where, when and how.
The touring is the purest joy really:
travel as creation
the bleary eyes in a Glasgow bus centre at 4AM
or the walk into Edinburgh as the sun flung itself into the sky
The Paddy’s Day entrourage the pissed up punters of Birmingham pubs
The long, long journeys so full of the crackle of joy the mundane uplifted
or the trip back to the alma mater, the umbrella laid outside the faculty
all done with love, but also a mind full of both the beauty and the folly
of a journey that means more to me
but maybe something to those who swept up the umbrellas
without a name or way to reply.
Just another strange statement, among many
That somehow sum up, just what it is,
to be us.
Metaphoric to Sink Your Teeth Into
Metaphoric to Sink Your Teeth Into
A friend recently said
poetry is like a tube of toothpaste.
That’s it, that’s all he said.
I told a friend that this friend
said this about poetry
and she said, that’s ridiculous.
Perhaps, but I get it.
Once poetry is squeezed out,
you can’t put it back.
Once a person writes a poem
they become a poet.
Once a poet, always a poet.
Once a poem is read,
you can’t pack it back up
and shove it into the tube.
No cramming your words
back in when they are set free
spread wings and fly.
And, anyway, why would you want
to stifle inspiration, flavored and
fluorided to prevent gingivitis.
Next time you hold that tube
in your hands, think about how
your words will be minty fresh,
your verses scrubbed to remove tartar
of dull words and lackluster images,
similes like a bright shiny smile, and
promote oral hygiene, reduce the plaque
of quotes that plague your epigraphs
with common clichés.
Next time you squeeze that tube,
imagine newbie poems waiting to fill
your mouth and mind with dentrific brilliance.
~ J R Turek
June 27, 2020
Hour 5