Writer’s block haiku: 6
What do you write for
When there is nothing to say
Six drafts thrown away
A Lesson Learned
In the old church,
on the hard, dark pews,
it grew hot and hotter
through the stained glass.
My little jacket was deep blue
with four buttons and two pockets.
One without a single hole. Wads of gum
stuck under the seat, some stickier
than others. My fingers soon smelled
lusciously of peppermint, clove, and spearmint.
And then came the sin, of course.
Who could resist? That devil.
Little kids can do things like this.
Chewing other people’s gum
without remorse. Savoring the flavors.
The understanding that, yes, it’s true
that gum keeps its flavor
when put on the bedpost overnight.
Even someone else’s gum.
The Deer
A deer is in the graveyard
Watching over the forgotten souls
Wandering peacefully amid the headstones
Grazing, resting, with no goals.
As I wander within the graveyard
My eyes dart to the deer
I cannot keep myself from wondering
Just why that deer is staying here.
Is the deer the keeper of the lost?
Is he the watcher of the time?
Why does he stand among the tombs?
He bids their passing a gentle goodbye.
Cuckoo Sings At Midnight
Cuckoo Sings At Midnight
Why is the day longer?
Because we sleep at night
And the cuckoo sings at midnight.
Life stirs inside the crow’s nest
When the nearby’s still
And the cuckoo sings at midnight.
Why it rains in the afternoon?
Because it’s day time
And the cuckoo sings at midnight.
Hour 6
@varenyas
6: Spy Pond Chronicles
Nudge me, Prosper, out of these dank thicks!
Sound me a selah, round up a blessing.
Recover. Breathe. Tell the beads.
Recall Reverend Peggy,
her horseradish wit,
her martini smile.
To thole. To endure.
Where’s my letter, Miss Sheila?
How is Heather doing?
Apple juice, my starlet! My miracle
of a thousand Burger Kings.
Obstreperous doxy
of a fading September,
I’ve got bills to pay.
You know what’s what, Sexton Jones.
Don’t muddle the vestry.
Connive to make glorious lumps of lingo.
Shelter against the muggies,
sing the four-letter serenade
to loutish bursts of rain.
Thunder me, Anselmo!
Shrive me, Brian!
Make friends with Vermont,
frigate about the shallows.
What’s the frequency, Emily?
Who pilfered the mushrumps?
Dance till your nerves cry Uncle:
there won’t be a sequel
to this chick flick.
Poem 6: Ode to Black
If I were to write an ode to black,
My words would flash and crackle
like the carapace
of an ancient beetle.
My fingers would tangle and weave
in black cotton clouds.
Patent leather cat,
jaws cracking open
on adoring air.
The room stirs the
jet stream of her black fur.
If space is not a vacuum,
why is it so cold?
And why do its dark pulses
tickle airlessness
and teach us to build
nothing out of something?
Blackness has a name,
flashing between bright stars,
and a purpose,
but I do not know
what that is.
12:12 PM Poem
12:12 PM
Things are good
As they should
Be
Even though
Words won’t flow
Now
Using time
Silly rhyme
Here
Set the speed
Maybe heed
Set
Hoping that
Next fully
Fun
Bringing up
Lots of stuff
Now
Countless Time
Time is neither enemy nor friend, false or true.
She’s what we came for and left behind, all at once.
But once is twice, and three becomes four more.
I don’t believe her, arrows, lines, trajectories, and horizons,
Exes and why’s, yesterdays and good byes, marital vows
All time passers and lies to the one true word, the eternal wink.
I’ve felt her fancy inside my third eye, my one true love’s belly.
Yet here I sit, fingers to screen, turning make believe dials,
Flipping numbers like pancakes to the sky that never return,
These ones and zeroes of the minds far greater than mine.
I count words and seconds as if, although, and despite it all.
The continuum tires of our tedious accountings and ledgers.
The Morning Dance
Every morning begins the dance,
A new day’s arrival, a new day’s chance.
Choices to be made on the focus of the day.
Choices to be made whether we’ll fret or pray.
Every morning begins the dance,
The coffee and ice water filled.
Checking morning emails, following the drill.
Vacation changes the dance and gives all a thrill.
Every morning begins the dance,
Some do the zombie walk.
Remembering to take a chance,
To smile at others and to talk.
Every morning begins the dance,
What choices will you make?
Will you lose yourself in the day,
Or will a chance you take?
Make a difference every morning,
Find a new dance to do.
You touch more lives than you know,
Make a difference, show kindess true.
#5
My path
is clear
but not straight
my path
is cluttered
but not messy
my path
gets me somewhere
closer to my passion
my path
is paved
with words
my path
is poetry