Poem VII: Heavy Haiku
Forgiveness is easy
For those who have never grieved.
Time does not heal wounds
Hour 19
Well this one got a little weird I guess. Not exactly what I meant to do but it was fun
Self
Self-portraits seem silly to me
I am no one special
No hidden talents
No deep thoughts
I exist to be simple
And while there’s nothing wrong
It also makes things hard
When people ask
Or want to know more
How do you explain this is it
That there aren’t depths to dive into
That you are a shallow pool
But yet people want to ask
And seem to find something
So maybe it’s all perception
Nonets For You- Hour 12
There’s so many reasons I love you
You make me so very happy
You make me smile like the sun
Pancakes and midnight snacks
Cuddles and back rubs
Always helping
Supporting
Loving
Hugs
HOUR 20 The Tragedy in Chorus
The Tragedy in Chorus
My sweet and servile lark,
how you wish to flee incarceration,
My testing set in motion,
Your chance at hand liberation,
My cunning and wicked songbird,
I have afforded freedoms possibility,
My hobbled and observant serin,
Chose flight and endure loving hostility.
You chose the route ill-advised,
I watched you still ready and waiting,
You chose escape of my loving touch,
A price to pay a penance degrading,
You chose the path easily predicted,
In shadow and murk, I glide portentous,
You chose poorly amputated queen,
My presence looms in rage tremendous.
Our games thought once withdrawn,
The chair, your crutch, swiftly ceased,
Our games change form,
Matching your caged Aria confronting my Tenor in beast,
Our games new developments fitting,
A betrayal must be acknowledged in brutal objection,
Our games progression ever evolving,
But now it’s time forelimb removal and glorious dissection.
Selfie–Hour 19
Layers intersecting
shadows at angles
I see double
with half the fun
one eye good
the other eye good
two good images
duking for dominance
undecided
unintegrated into one clear whole
Eyeglasses twice removed
one lens occluded
carefully covered with a circle of
blue painter’s tape
removing one globe from the mobile
of sight
that ghosting brother
always hovering
Capricorns (Hour Sixteen, A Tanka Poem)
NaNaw was her name,
but Daddy always called her
a stubborn old Goat.
A January baby,
he swears I’m a hardhead too.
(A tanka is a five-line poem with a syllable count of 5/7/5/7/7. Interesting fact: both my maternal and paternal grandmothers were born on the same date — January 20 — although several years separated them. My paternal great-grandmother, my NaNaw Bea, was also a Capricorn, And me, I am a hardheaded Goat as well, born the first week of January.)
Arcana’s Protection
(for hour 19—the image prompt of Arcana’s shore for Onweald)
Arcana’s Protection
Arcana Scheld arrived with a high tide off the Meredore
Spray from the ocean wet her face
And misted her eyes a faerie gray
Suitors flocked like seabirds
Pecking at her shawl
Offerings to a fresh maiden
Trite pleasantries
Gifts
Overtures of marriage
Odda Taiman put them all to shame
He alone ripped the Freotho Mountains apart for her
Shaped a castle from rock for her
Where the cliffs meet the shore, he named for her
And suitors scattered in fear of him
He cast a web of protection along Arcana’s harbor
And built the foundation of Onweald’s success because of her
Arcana Scheld brought a high tide off the Meredore
And the world was better for the love of her
Hour 18
Yay still catching up! I haven’t been feeling the prompts lately so I’ve been doing my own thing for some and that’s been nice. I enjoy having the starting point. But some just don’t vibe.
Habits
I will get into habits
Things I do every day
Checking certain things
And I noticed you have checked too
You have barely reached out
And I don’t know what to think
Maybe I should fully reach
Maybe I should ignore it
Because I was always reaching before
And I am tired of pushing forward
When you don’t respond
So I’ve been breaking my habit of you
13 A Passing Decree
Death sighed
The living were so tedious
They all have to die
Some sooner than others
The end journey is always the same
I don’t come running to them
But if I visit
Most cannot get away
Some do seem to beat the rap
Their time was not really up
I called to warn
Do no try to help me along the way
Cherish the life you are leading
Treasure those around you
Remember …
Death is the ultimate adventure
I know each number
Before any are born
And when the clock ticks its last
There is never anywhere to run
MOTION BLUR MURAL – Hour Nineteen (2021)
MOTION BLUR MURAL
I could write this piece as a landscape
where it’s always dawn or dusk
never night or noon
where it’s flat and mountainous
where it’s grassy and rocky
where the cliffs are worn away by water
where the sand was forged of the cliffside
infinity’s hourglass / roaring shore / tiny beads of release
oh shit you meant like a portrait of the poet?
that one’s a watercolor rainbow in profile
looking lost in thought out over the water
wondering when I’ll grow into my voice
wondering when I’ll grow out of my tits
and then there’s you, asking why I didn’t choose vice
as if a moral judgement on my body would purify me?
are you actually asking me to tell you who I am?
can’t I just side with Eliot here and say the person
who began this poem is not the person who will end it?