Morning haikuA burning sunriseThe eyes catch fireWash my face in the pond
Piano in an empty roomMoving out. In the living-room, only the grand piano remains,black and shiny, like an insecttrapped on the ground, one wing extendedas if trying to fly right before death caught up with it.The sound would be different nowwith no furniture around,no books to soften the notes,no rug to dampen the low vibrations.I never learned to playand now the piano seems to epitomizethe black bulk of my regrets...defiant, untouched.On a whim I sit in front of it.I let my fingers flow as they will,my mind wondersand I drift away for a while.After I don't know how long, I stop.The sound is different in an empty room...and with a trace of excitement I realize I had something there.Later that day, when workers came to pick up the piano, I just sent them away."I'm gonna keep it" and didn't back down before their protests.I will place it in my next apartment,in an empty room,so that it sounds different
The reality conjecture. Monolithic dreamsWhen you live so long among dreams,they start shaping your realityWhen you live so long without...reality shapes you
FireIf life is a slow torture anyway,Then it is a blessing to be,From time to time,Tortured by loveAnd if be consumed,Let it be by fire
ZenSometimesIn the zen gardenRocks contemplate people
PhantomWhen lifeor fateor whatever it isthat puts things togetherand takes them apart...when Itamputated you,it left mewith a phantomlimband you are still attachedto my bodywhen I danceand make lovealone
Nature morteI tried to paint herI had already set the backgroundthe cold and warm colors, the surroundings,the atmosphere, the light,the soothing feelings,the sheets on the bed, forever unmade,a plate of fruits on the nightstand...but then she leftand all I have nowis a fresh paintingd'une nature mortewith a plate of fruits on the nightstand,the tortured feelings,the atmosphere, the dust,the cold and distant colors, the surroundings,and her form, imprinted in the sheets on the bed,forever unmade...
EmptinessI stopped cleaning my roomdust lays everywherebut I'm confident the void inside mewill suck it all inand leave my roomclean
Metamorphobiait is a wonder all the changesthat one endures in a dayat dawn, in fear, desperation,then words pull you from the abyss,your lungs inhale a swift elation,the eyes perceive a kind of bliss,then clouds, dark clouds, again in silencethe rain, the wind, the sun againat last the dark, the taste of violence,the sensual rhythm of a trainand like emerging as imagoyou exchange fear for delightyou are a thing of many facesdepressed by day, a god by night
the beauty's in the leavingRead aloud here.sweetheart, let's head out. let'sdrink up the desert asphalt and that last bottleof johnny walker blue--one last toast to the copper sunsets,to the good earth. a pair oftailgate stargazers, you and i:roaming curves across the glove compartment map, untilevery foldline is worn flannel-softand it'd rather stay openthan closed.let's forget route sixty-six. let's forget the numbersand pick up terra cotta dust--breathe in the mojave. let's pretendthat the world's already endedand it's just us.let's leave the door unlockedand gowest.
Bowlesian Sonnet-en if this paper in your hand was oncean Aspen, thick with sunny leaves; aroundthe base of wet and living wood, a groundthat reeks of life and death at once, then conc--entrate, and know at least in brief the grandmachine you sleep in, twitching fingers, won--dering just how one feels a texture, sunlights warmth, bare prickled skin, bare feet in sand.Oh this body. How I will tend to itseventy-five or eighty. How I willbend arthritic knees, by five windows, still,the summers passing. Faithful friend! Now, bitby bit, you close each window to its clasp.This paper in your hand was once an Asp-
Survival of the FittestHear me read itI am crack'd. Open to the pitwith the nub and root exposed.I am silver pierced and puncturedwith holes and protruding piecesof rocked raw wounds rubbed open.I am barely shattering my lungsby inhaling the same air as youeven long after your departure.With a bile-laced smile I paveand fill in crack and crevicesI am more than disfigured limbsand disillusioned heart muscle,scraping a breath down my trachea.More than the mess you have made.I hold in my innards, and survive.
.the oaks crouch to greetme, i sit with the ferns andthe forest listens
.in yourhead liesa well troddenpath;i want thewilderness
right now it's raining outside.i take the things i loveand hold them tight like a rose beneath my fingers,my knuckles manage to fade a whiter hueand slowly the petals bleed,and i'm left with the crumbled thornsof painful regret.they would have been better offhad i just let themgo.
Gather the Roses, my Love, And Fly AwayGather the Roses, my Love, And Fly AwayI hope to awaken in autumn one dayAnd find myself alone, like these withered leavesGather the roses, my love, and fly awayFate came, and tore us - thus were we set astrayToo late were we, for this weight that would not leaveI hope to awaken in autumn one dayThe waves of the sea, their tides striking the bayAn undefined weight, a hard burden they heaveGather the roses, my love, and fly awayThis soul is lost, its cries led by the wind's swayA heart taken, its pieces lost from each cleaveI hope to awaken in autumn one dayMarkings left show life, as you would always sayThe sea which cared for me, a friend who would grieveGather the roses, my love, and fly awayI waited by the sea, here is my last stayI make my last wish, by the end of the eveI hope to awaken in autumn one dayGather the roses, my love, and fly away
wrists that roarmama sayspull down your sleevesthey'll see, they'll seebut no-one's even lookingi say mamatigers are proud and strongand tigers show their stripesso today i'm a tigerand who saysi can't be a tigerwhen razors made me fierceand secrets kept me lonelywho saysi can't tiger-roarwhen everything unsaidripped my throat rawi made my stripeswith tiger-claws and tiger-teethso damned if i'm not a tigerand damned if i won't roarmama, i'm a tigermama, hear me roar
Mandela's ChariotIn silence your chariot approaches. Bright light, a piece of heavens.A man of destiny, a prince, grandfather of his nation, returns hometo the heavens that birthed him. A moral authority, of grace and peacewho helped lay aside the chains of oppression with a soft laugh and guiding hand.Your ride home is here, not to the village where you took first breath,but to the heavens where your soul was forged to change the courseof a people, a nation, a world and the history that is to follow. Relax,enjoy the ride home, knowing that you have sown well the seeds of peace.Madiba, you are a leader who did not need a gun or threats of terror,but lead by simple moral authority, not so simple in this graceless age.Twenty seven years in the stone belly of the apartheid beast, releasedto forgive his jailors for the betterment of all, rising above fear and hate.Once around the sun and then back into the heavens, Mandela rides proudand the angels line his route home, his chariot carrying evi
HaikuWriMo1Church spire, stretching,weds the moon.2Slate skyand a heavy heat;collapsing.3Embroidered stars—celestial needlework.4Fairy wrens:steeds of elven knights,armoured all in blue.5Raindrops—wet wings,startled honeybee.6Huntsmanupon orange glass:a specimen, fossilisedin amber.7Scarred grape,veined in gold—kintsugi.8White blossoms,fallen like snowdrops.9Eagle in flight,great wings cradlingthe half-moon.10Pastel sun,peeking from a soft,smoky grey duvet.11The world settles;the heavens awaken—storm.12Black swans:two arrows in tandem.13Mirror-verse—sunset’s reflection,river-bound.14The yellow of anold book:crinkled paper moon.15Tangled in old web—a spider, noosed.16Rough brushstrokesof a smudged landscape:Impressionism.17Giant’s treasure:pot of molten goldspilledalong the treetops.18Raindropslike gemstones,flinging light.
sea dwellerswe drove to the seaside on a whimpacked ourselves into our golden chariotand were offit took us almost ten minutes to climb to Patrick's Pointand once our feet hit the cobbled stone pathonce our cheeks stung with the bite of cold ocean airwe laughed and jumped the wall, stood closer to the rocky drop off than we should haveand the ocean taunted usit laughedit mockedit beckonedand we yieldedwe clamored over branchesspiraling down down down like stairs only falling in a cloud of dust once or twicewe trailed after one another dreamilyunder an oak arch leading toan alcove of beautywith rocks andsea lions and "look; seaa-nem-o-nesanemo-nesanemones"cutting hands and knees on mottled salt rocksour adventurous blood slipped over one another's reaching handsover barnacles an
FineEarly mornin’ coffeeNever tasted so bitter.I’m telling you, I’m fine.Every mornin’, the same routine.Why do you still not believe me?I’m fine, I swear.I just couldn’t sleep…Again.But who needs sleep anyways?I write instead.I’m fine. Just a little brain dead.I was just thinking about the past,And I fantasizedThat there was a happy ending.I’m fine now.I’m just fine.Don’t worry.
.i would shed my skinwith autumn, but my veins wouldcrack like the dry leaves
in which I become beautifulI drown my conscience inthe holy water of my wrists,I carve hearts from emptypaper for my galaxyboywith stars written in his skin,and I swallow moths tomuffle the emptiness andhelp me fly away.
You've Endured So Many Storms That You Became OneYou have endured so many storms that you became one.Your mother was a tsunami.Her emotions came in wavesand crashed down on you like“this is all your fault”.Her high-tide flooded your basement.There’s water damage in your roots.She taught you how to swim when you were five years old,but somehow you’ve been drowning for seventeen years.You once told me that you hid all the knives in your houseso that the waves wouldn’t carry them away.Your father was a thunderstorm.His voice shook your house so much,I could have almost sworn that you lived by train tracks.His thought cloudsgenerated enough electricity to light up your neighborhood.When his lightning cracked you’d count“one Mississippitwo Mississippi”to see how far away his hand was from your facebefore the friction in his bones was too much for him to bear.You have endured so many storms that you became one.You are an earthquake,and my heart is your San Andreas Fault
ocean lungsyou weigh something like gravityin my tired expanse. you aresand;(my once splendid mountain)my love is the oceanthat has worn you down.with my monstrous tongue,i pulled you in.as you fall,sweeping peacefully into the depthsand filling each crevice,i am learning to inhale shores.some would say i'm suffocatingand bring me buckets of air (only to have itescape my slippery grip).no, the tides need something heavyto make of hera home.
Appear OfflineIt’s easy to miss you in the 21st centurywith a little green dot next to your namewith a myriad of ways to grasp across the distancebut my phone has brokenyour internet’s terribleand facebook chat never worksso I’m left to miss you by candlelightwatching a lonely seadebating a letterwondering how anyone ever copedbefore skype.
how to become a writeri.peruse catholic schools. stumble overpaltry naivete to fall in (love)with the angelic crackhead. hookhis libel over your heartstrings. invoke the attention of God you've learned to worship. abandon faith. ii.enter the theater. extend every lasthope fiber on the chance for stardom.earn the spotlight on a fluke. eradicatefear with a giant's assistance. scrunch him into your pocket. flail wildly afterhe escapes and disables your psyche. iii.desire fruit from the tree of good and evil.become this generation's adam. knowyour ambition will be your downfall. coaxthe serpent to you - just punishment isits own reward. weep for the loss of everything before - no more innocence.iiii.love with everything you areand can ever hope to be.
Night haikuThe moon comforts a waveBefore its impending deathUpon the shore