Loneliness is a deep canyon
that gives no echo.
So that no matter how loudly
you try to resound
the words catch
at the corners
of your lips
and you swallow
then back down
like half-chewed seeds
hoping that they
might grow roots
deep inside of you
and sprout daisies
from your chest cavity
like longed-for weeds
So that you can build a garden,
that does not grow
but can weather every day
that the sun’s face does not show.
Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash
There was a lick of cold in the air when I stepped out of the front door that early spring morning, a small reminder of the ghosts of winter. I thought, for the briefest of moments, about digging a coat from the bottom of my pile of already-packed-away winter clothes, but the sun above my head was warm enough against my shoulders and it had been far too long since the sun and I had talked without intervening layers. Slow paced, I traced a path through my concrete clad neighborhood with no particular destination in mind. The sun felt good on my back, so I took off my shirt, letting the cold and the warmth sweep over me simultaneously. I shivered slightly as the sun battled the shadows on my behalf.
Ghostly blackbird sings
a premonition of spring
hidden in the shade.
The leaves crinkled under my feet as I walked. One of my footsteps made no noise and I paused to see what there was living among the dead leaves. It was a single cherry blossom petal that must have floated here on the contradictory breeze. With nowhere to go and nothing but time, I sat down in the dead leaves by the roadside, twirling the cherry blossom petal between my fingers, feeling the cold breeze, waiting for spring. I sat there all evening. As the sunlight faded into night, I bit a piece off of the petal, then another, then another, until there was nothing left. After that, I went home, the cold breeze still lingering.
dead leaves and dry ground
all crumbling underfoot –
a delayed rebirth
At DVerse, the prompt is to write a haibun about Cold Mountain.
Photo by Imani Bahati on Unsplash
Moon as red, as autumn wine,
that on this summer night so fine,
across the sky has slowly bled
like paint, unaccustomed to lines
or to creaking necks and upturned heads
that never before or after saw a moon as red.
There is a quiet quiver in the air,
on this summer night so fair,
when the moon is bled to slivers,
and laced with clouds that do not care
how much they mute the moon’s red river.
In your shoulders that night, though you know not why, there is a quiet quiver.
At DVerse today, we were asked to write a sparrowlet poem.
Photo by Anand Rathod on Unsplash
Oh, tinsel tailor,
with your shop
full of hybrid silver
and paper snow.
Why plant trees
with steel roots
that never grow
and top them
see the sky?
Is the truth
not as beautiful
as the lie?
At DVerse this week, the prompt is to write a quadrille around the word Tinsel.
Photo by Алсу Вершинина on Unsplash
Click! What is your name?
I think that I’ve forgotten.
Tap! Tap! Fingertips whisper.
Bloody, bloody fingers.
Can you tell me why you did it?
At DVerse, the prompt today is to write a poem in the wayra form, incorporating onomatopoeia. I have amended this and written a short story in the wayra form.
Photo by The Dark Queen on Unsplash
The dark chocolate echoing of dusk
against the Ferris Wheel
overlooking the fairgrounds
That bittersweet evening
Is on my lips
And the errant air
Tastes like apple-crisps
Though cotton-candy conversation parched,
as if by design
Your hands are water
And your lips wine
Photo by Stanislav Ferrao on Unsplash
At DVerse today, the prompt is to write a Quadrille poem consisting of 44 words exactly (not including the title) in response to the challenge. The word today is ‘Fair’ and it must be used in some form within your poem.
That old swing-set
was young when I was young,
its shoulders fresh painted
and its swings not yet deep rust-set.
We made fast friends,
that old swing-set and I,
though he sometimes threw me from his shoulders
knocking my knees and dusting my hands
That swing-set’s hands are splintered
and I visit my old friend with calloused hands
to find his swings gone and his paint chipped
from when I was away those many, many winters.
I climb his side with a book in hand,
as I once did when I was younger,
and I read all afternoon with my old friend
in the shadow of the boy I was – now a man.
At DVerse, the prompt today is to write a poem recalling some specific thing or things from the past OR more generally about what evokes a memory or memories in you.
Photo by Tobias Kebernik on Unsplash
The king lay in bed with a fever. He had been this way ever since three days before, when the peasants had waged an uprising in the town outside the castle’s walls.
He could hear them dancing and singing through his window. It made him sick. How dare they take his kindness for granted?
A servant entered the room: “My lord, the people are asking you to forsake the throne. What will you do?”
The king curled up under his blankets: “I will do no such thing! Woe is me! I am bombarded yet I stand here still! I will not give up my kingdom. It is my right to rule!”
The servant slid a long dagger from the sleeve of his robe: “I have enjoyed serving you, my lord. I am sorry to hear you feel that way.”
At DVerse today, the prompt is to write a piece of flash fiction or other prose of up to or exactly 144 words, including the given line: I am bombarded yet I stand.
Photo by Randy Fath on Unsplash
Like cigar ash
my memories of you long linger,
tight packed in my heart
and in my head.
When my lungs make room
for new memories,
the ash burns as warm
as your smile,
smelling of cedar
the soft-sweetest spices.
Photo by Lucas Filipe on Unsplash
The prompt on DVerse this evening is to write an ash quadrille – 44 words, including the word ash.
It is human
to gather moss
on things that matter
and on things that do not.
It is human
to settle too soon
to sink into hillsides
that feel like home
to be a stone unrolled
but somehow still happy
Photo by 许 婷婷 on Unsplash
On DVerse today, we are carving a poem out of the word stone, and making it precisely 44 words long, not counting the title.