Cycle

A M Nabonne (Lubesh)

Send me yon flowers,
one hundred years hence –
see beautiful daffodil unfold.

See me secretly
one hundred years hence
unravelling within, yearning twice fold

Scorch my dignity as you travel hence,
and reach for those stars
just for me.
I’ll see yon rose buds bloom
amidst scent,

When you send yon flowers
to me.

Silently, I Go

Words tremble and form on my lips.
In the middle of nowhere,
on an old, abandoned field’s
icy, quiet calm – I can
see those words as frosted air,
palpable, almost real.
Almost.
The memory of ecstasy
ripples vehemently in rifts,
saying, ‘don’t let go –
don’t let go of the moment,
the tenderness and the journey
that has begun –
don’t let go of the time invested
and the heart’s own life span,’ –
I clap my mitts together hard.
I need to hear another voice
in the heavy, thick dullness
of meaningless, inside this bitterly
cold wilderness – an expansion
of existence.
Inside this perfect ring of O,
caution and doubt is excluded
by the wintry tourniquet
and deep seated bleakness.
Within this rink of fire,
I have found a plan;
idly scraped into the dense snow’s
virgin white territory
are thoughts and decision making –
a bittersweet means to an end.
I exhale and words reverberate –
detached.
Let loose, they do their own thing.
I believe that trust is its own reward,
and love is a consequence
of that very airing –
so, I let them breathe.
My lips tremble from more words,
although I can’t hear them, they spill
and the cold lets them sit there.
Sat on the snow, memories
cosy up to them,
of when tears made me choke
and lies made me half blind –
now they both
thaw like a discarded
ice lolly bleeding into the impacted
prisms hidden in this pristine
foundation.
I rub my insulated woollen hand
over the small pond’s glass
to see a lifetime spent asking
why amid my mind’s sighs to half
answered questions and doubts,
and painful bouts of inertia.
I find a heavy rock, and listening
only to the whispers between
my thighs’ nylon energy,
I smash it into a face
in the ice –
all of those things are finally
released and surface through the shards
of their confinement –
roaming prisoners cut loose
to set me free,
to crawl out onto the debris.
Wading knee deep I try to remember
what was instilled in me;
I was taught to swim and love,
and trust in rewards,
I was loved and I am loved,
a consequence of not sinking –
swim freely.
The temperature plummets
within, and still knee deep, I am caught
in the ice of limbo
like a reluctant, unbaptised infant
who already knows its own mind.
Today, it is not as simple; revisited
once again, by dark clouds that come
to smother me with their words –
they take their place in the queue
in this time lapse of a snowy day
where whiter clouds come and go,
but like my words they are seldom
realised, and so I have to withdraw
into a quiet blackness – the Narnia sheen
of glistening reason is too bright,
too stark, too vivid when shouts scream
from it.
The pool of unhurried water is a starkly
black dilation –
of a welcoming eye – the pupil inside
this giant O.
I fall into its gaze, and like yours
it swallows me up.

Satin Sheet

Pic source:  Mountain Journal.

(06.12.2010)

Kneeling down on her soft bed, my eyes follow
hollow sounding, icy trails from hot breath;
my hands hold the deep, voluptuous curves
of an ice maiden, languishing e’er long this coldest
of winters.
A contradiction; how easy she melts
at the first caress and too soon my heart aches
for callous black ice to keep forever the footprints
of yesteryear, sadly only imprinted forever in memory –
how quickly they disappear in warmer times.
Is it by tender touch and passionate farewell, or does the iconic
Lady of Winter, as yet unloved, simply
shake off her shrill wrap to vanish once more?

Seasons Haiku#

spring sunshine
the slow drip
of icicles

winds gently knock
tall shadows
creak

humming birds
a blush of ruby vests
summer haze

 

 

Silk #Haiku

Mist’s grip
trickles from icicles
time floats away

Birds leave footprints
in this powder puff dream
I pinch myself

Purring Snow #Haiku

Oh my lonely lap
Winter’s icy breath chased you
Now we both tremble

 

 

A Tiny Thing

I’m copying Dorinda Duclos and re posting a Christmas favourite of mine and hijacking the lyrics – influenced by ‘The Little Swallow’ Carol of the Bells composed by Ukrainian composer Mykola Leontovych in 1914-  Re written – I started writing to the tune) this is what I got. дякую (thank you).

Sing little bird,
fly overhead,
rest in the trees’
wavering breeze.

Lift your curtain high at dawn,
let sleep the flickering candle’s yawning.

Tall trees aglow,
clouds full of snow,
laden with light,
black hops on white,
snow flurry sneeze

small feathers freeze.
Fly little bird
lift up and fight,
go little bird

circle the light,
sleep little bird,
soundly tonight.
Try little bird,

lift your wings while you’re still singing
soon the night will warm your dreaming.

Fly little bird
reach for the night,
go little bird,
shy of winter’s light.

Warm your body, melt the snow
for the daylight crisp below.

Go little bird,
sleep little bird,
find the songs you sweetly sing
nestle there ’til winter’s still.

Go little bird,
up to the night,
fly little bird
soundly tonight.

See the moon she’s smiling for you
shivering stars their arms are open too.

So go, little bird,
fly little bird,
high little bird,
hush, little bird.

Soon will come the voices of the morn,
joyous little creature of our dawn.

Go little bird,
fly little bird,
sleep little bird,
twilight is heard.

Go little bird…
go.

Such A Time

I found a blog not long ago that always inspires me to do…  something,  even if only in a document.  This is not a patch on his work but I wrote.  Thank you Lance Sheridan.  Please visit his amazing writing.

Does winter’s plague
beckon the drowned
who find solace beneath?

Accustomed to the connecting
seasons floating by, they endure
the frowned face stares
tentatively mirroring their own
above taught ice.

Caught in between coldness,
a new age and only a hint
of the smell of warmth
from heads butting on this hard glass
they hurl and shout –

but nothing will reach the surface
till spring time –
a time eagerly awaiting
the scathing torture in their
rambunctious voice –

and not until, after a crack of ice,
thick and headstrong,
all hell is let loose,

if hell, that is, were suddenly,
to become heaven, and spring is reborn.

 

 

 

Comment-a-Haiku Poetry Contest! – Submit Your Poem

Baton

Summer’s scorched burnt tip
Pierces autumn’s bronzed winter
Till quenched by cool spring

Have a go!

Vita Brevis Press.

You all loved the last Comment-a-Haiku Competition, so let’s give it another go! Here’s What You Need to Know:

---

Vita Brevis is hosting another four-day haiku competition–taking place entirely in the comment section of this post!

How to Submit:

1. Submit one 5-7-5 haiku as a comment on this post — all topics welcome

2. Reblog this post on your blog or write a post announcing that you’ve entered the competition, linking back here

3. Give good feedback on other commenters’ work! [This is what it’s really about–you’ll be receiving good feedback, so try to give it to others as well]

Reward: Honestly, this is less about “winning” and more about meeting and communicating with other poets.But we will choose some honorable mentions, and we’ll publish our favorite haiku on the front page of our online poetry magazine (with a link to the poet’s blog)

View original post 29 more words

Association #Haiku

Haiku Horizons prompt: Spring.  Other entries.

Often in springtime
Scents of favourite flowers
Push back to winter