Haiku, mark my place–

Thumbtack on the empty board;

Anchor words to page.

Prompt 23: Odyssey

Never a night so long,

Lashed here, to Homer’s Galley


And knowing, sleep’s music, so wrong

Would undoubtedly drown me

Wholly, completely, sweetly.


Pillowed Siren, Scylla and Charybdis

I have closed my ears thus far


But I nod and your voice softly whispers

“Come away, come away. Sleep is yours.”


I must not, for a moment, til dawn.

Never a night so long!


Pillowed Siren, Scylla, Charybdis

have won and I am no more.

To the waves of my sheets, I succumb.


Surrender–surrender complete,

Has never felt so sweet.

22: tendered

there was,

in that place,


where the tide could reach

the sand

and where

its treasure lay


the strand,

the frass

of upchurned storm

and wind,

driven to this reach,

beyond the waves

wild ride

and here

stand I


the fractured


of hope

20: Dappled

I wander

vacant halls

where life and laughter lived;


Hopes and Dreams

packed their bags.

I slept on;


I thought I heard

the hinge turn,

light steps

in the dappled dawn.



they latched,

and locked,


and left


through garden,

to curb,

to catch the yellow-sorrow cab.


Kick memories,


down tiled halls;



the echo,

empty, cold;


No embers to be stirred.

18: At 2am

Shakespeare and Poe share the same family tree

Genetically prone to dramatical spree

Such as murders and the quoting of ravens and such,

Perhaps just a little too much.


Stevenson’s prattle of pirates and shore

While Wordsworth rambles of flowers galore

And Frost with his goings, his stopping, his walls,

Dickinson’s bees, drunken hauls.


Rhythm and rhyme, insidiously vile,

Seeps into our soul, with the gentlest guile

And sticks in the cracks between tear and smile.

Forever. Or just for a while.

Prompt 17: License to Limerick

There once was a poet from Perth,

Who weighed each word for its worth.

Her thesaurus was tattered;

For to her, all that mattered,

Was pentameter stretched ‘round the earth!

14: The Lost Weekend

The Lost Weekend


It was a bender. A binge.

To make anyone cringe,

Who’d been on one and swore, “Nevermore”.

By mistake, she had started,

And forgot why she fought it,

Entranced by its mystique once more.

By the time she awakened,

The toll had been taken,

As she laid prostrate and feeble and wan.

She knew now, ‘twas a fable,

To assume she was stable…

From the lure of a Poetry ‘Thon!

1 2 3 11