Small animals watch
Grass nibs almost pierce the sky
Spring writes poetry
Day 192/365 – Morgan’s #DailyHaikuChallenge. Join in and link back to her blog.
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Month: April 2017
Flicker #DailyHaikuChallenge
Once candle light dies
Stars are framed by windowpane
Smoke slithers outside
Day 191/365 – Morgan’s #DailyHaikuChallenge. Join in and link back to her blog.
Petrichor #DailyHaikuChallenge
Spring’s hearty deluge
Brings an earthiness to air
The smell of the rain
Day 190/365 – Morgan’s #DailyHaikuChallenge. Join in and link back to her blog.
Luck
O wise, pearl moon,
guardian of my secrets
or lucky charm?
I carry you with me
pinned to the night’s
mink cloth; its warm wrap
consoles even me,
but I shun its generosity
and compassion – I deserve none.
Let me wallow here in darkness
and wait ’til sunlight for
the chance of forgiveness.
But when the candle idles
and daylight overcomes
dusk, my luck will run out,
so maybe I will keep walking
and blend with the budding pathways
to spring and wait for your return tonight.
Honourine #DailyHaikuChallenege
Shy little flower
Anemone’s chalk white face
Like pretty Geisha
Day 189/365 – Morgan’s #DailyHaikuChallenge. Join in and link back to her blog.
Twinkling #DailyHaikuChallenge
Sultry breeze tickles
A still pond’s tranquillity
Shivers down my spine
Day 188/365 – Morgan’s #DailyHaikuChallenge. Join in and link back to her blog.
Promised Reward for Fools
The souls of all those aching fools
are mulched with the broken bonds of glory
and cacophony of undeliverable
goods: swept up wings
of beautiful angels or sultry virgins waiting
in paradise for suicides blown to kingdom come –
the only kingdom deep in the depths of righteousness
under ashen beads of sweat.
They cry beneath their toil when all have left
them forgotten in dank, gritted dirt,
Graves roll over like fond heather
when purple prayers are laid to rest
along with all signs of peace.
Time and again they pour themselves
into the ground hoping rotten weeds
will allow them breathing room
‘til their passage, but slithering tongues
try to lick them clean while both crawl
on bellies over and through
withered twig fingers still wedded
to propaganda’s grenades and its rusted
rings. Lifeless, hollow, frigid eyes
desperately seek out the light
among a scurry of morbid shadows.
Cold pitiful screams muffled by cold clay
means in the end, there is no glory
or kingdom, vineyards and exquisite drinks
dripped by virgins in a life ever after – all bets
are off.
