Tending our garden
I pull apple blossoms
From your hair
A lovely and different kind of haiky that I 'see' very well. Thank you. Congratulations on the DLD.
Frozen SleevesWaiting for you,
My sleeves have frozen
As the slow moon sets
Over the mountains
where you live.
Garet goes FishingHe cast out his line out into the river, and made himself comfortable. Of course he'll catch a fish by tonight! It will just take a while. He leaned back against the river bed and closed his eyes. Yep, any time
Was that a tug?
He did not move.
Yes, that was a tug! Already! A big tug, too. He sprung back up and grabbed the rod. As he reeled the fish back in, the line kept zigging and zagging across the surface. Visions of roasted fish on a campfire swirled before his eyes, making him reel all the harder.
"C'mon! We have a date with destiny tonight! Your face is mine!"
He reeled with all his might, his muscles bulging in his arms. He grunted what a heavy fish! All the better. But when he pulled up his catch, he found
"Well, hell." He tossed the sucker back in, as it shrilled at him with indecipherable words. But whatever, Garet mused, he wanted fish. Not some stinking Djinni. They were all over the damn place anyway. And this particular
QuestionsThe boy and girl peered outside the living room window and watched the rain splash against the glass, smearing the street below in an ugly way. For a while, they watched in silence.
He broke it first. "I thought our fathers would be coming back today."
The girl finally looked at him. "Didn't their letter say that they will?"
"Then they could! I mean, the day's not over yet..." Her sentence trailed off as she looked outside again. He looked too. The wind picked up again, the rain peppering on the window. He mumbled something else, but she did not hear him.
"I like the wind," she said.
"I hope the storm's not slowing them down -"
"I think father likes the wind too. He takes me outside to listen when it gets like this. He once let me watch him make a whirlwind, remember? But he doesn't like it when I watch him sometimes. I wish he would teach me someday." She did not say everything, and felt slightly uncomfortable.
The boy nodded, but said nothing. His mouth was set. "My father
Chapter 1: Karis"Take care, father."
I am holding the Soarwing, and she tries to take it from me but I do not let go, even as she gently tugs at it. Karis' smile fades. She looks at me. This will be the last time I see her.
"Father, you're sad." Her steady eyes peer into mine. Just like my own.
"I'll be alright."
"Tell me what's wrong." I hear the slight tremble in her voice. How could I let her go like this?
"They're waiting for you. You'd best be going." My eyes blur, and I feel a tear roll down my cheek. I thought I was prepared I have known for years but I guess I will never be ready.
She only looked, then slowly let go of the Soarwing. Her eyes are confused; I told her before that I would hold nothing back. That there would be no more secrets. I'm sorry Karis, but I have no words. I love you too much. I put down the Soarwing.
My mother My mother could do it. Lord Hammet and Lady Layana could do it. Isaac and Garet are less anxious than I. Even Jenna Everyone else can, bu
Farewell to Arms - FergyShe told me to take this to her husband.
"You're not married." I looked at the letter. Fresh ink on the envelope, but there was not a smear.
"Since I came here. I am his good wife. And he's my loving husband. We're happily married."
I studied her face. Bags were forming under her eyes. "Please Fergy," she said, "Take this to him."
"You're not happy."
"You should take night duty off. You must be tired. You never have it easy, even now."
"No. He wants me." The ticking of the clock echoed in the hallway. "Yes. Yes. But it's harder when I'm empty."
I told her that she could not know. Or maybe she does. It will all end, and she will die alone. I know. I have seen it happen. They would fight, till death do they part. Or worse. Because she is that person who is always there. He might never come back, or he will and not care.
And I told her of the wait, and how that preoccupies people to the point of when they forget the things that they were waiting for. This w
A Soldier's FuneralA young boy sits beside his mom. Holding a card for the man he never knew, and his mom's hand in the other since she never let it go yet and will never again. Wearing a black suit from Goodwill that's too big for him that should've been for an older boy, perhaps for a boy who's dad didn't fight men with guns in the little box. When she presses mute on the remote, the people like dad move their mouths, fish out of water. He knew that there was no water where his dad was, just sand and big blue skies. His teacher showed the class pictures of the Sahara one day and she talked about how there were ponds in the desert sometimes, and he played there were fish swimming there.
The black car they sat in sagely moved along the gray road, behind another car just like it. It was so hot. The air conditioning whined, but it wasn't enough to stop the sweat coming down his forehead. The only sound. His arm itched, and he scratched it after placing his card on his lap. Mom said he must take good care o
Letting GoEmpty. Choking on a long note, sobs rest in a mute voice. A young man wears his limp white lab coat. The violin rests under his rough chin, spindly hands hold the spine steady. Stands still, straight bow on the strained strings. Immovable. Coaxing music out, his eyes closed in a child's prayer.
A glass box shudders. The water inside leaps up, swirling and convulsing. Dying snake. The man scrunches his eyes, squeezing notes as tremors rack his frame. Waves pound the fragile walls. The deep blue where light cannot penetrate fills his eyes. One string left gasping for breath lets go. Cracks. Floods in his head, can't breathe. Too weak to swim, drowning drowning. Don't know how. Crashing and roaring, carried down. Black.
shaking lanternA stranger with a shaking lantern
Through the narrow mountain pass,
he hastens his neighing horse.
Harsh outlines of jagged rocks-
Shadows on an empty window,
a wavering town in valley mist
where his family lives...
Moaning winds rise to greet him-
Stinging eyes, he wipes them with damp sleeves.
He lights the lonely lantern, one
cold gleam in the depths
of his quickening heart.
Hollow Memory of a Distant ShoreYou are like a long passed season.
As delicate as the footprints of sparrows in freshly fallen snow.
Intricate, yet so easily disturbed when care is not taken.
Somehow, you have managed to persist after all these years.
Residing in the same quiet place you carved into the woods so long ago..
Only a short ride from the sea.
When you cross my mind, you carry with you the scent of that shoreline.
Harsh and thick, yet somehow placating.
Though the weather was perpetually gray, misty, and cold.
Much like your heart had become..
Just before we painfully, and slowly, parted ways.
I recall with deep longing your fascination with foxes.
With the way they would trot up and down the beach in the early morning,
Their coats most often wet and muddy from crossing into the tide.
I could see the subtle enthrallment in your eyes as they dug for clams.
They would thrust their forepaws deep into the muck, throw it backward..
And at times, to my assuagement, you would smile.
Now, it feels more dist
Heading HomeBitter-boned, I break and crumble to dust
My pockets full of keys to places that no longer exist
An oystershell ashtray full of butts and ashes beside me
Testify to dreams of green hedges and white picket fences
A tapping on the door, a rapping on the wall
Ghosts always like this hour just before dawn
A bird screeches and I wake again to the stinging day
And shufflestep towards home from a thousand worlds away
Ocean EyesYour skin would be lace
Between my fingertips,
Tangling with streams
Of golden sunlight that
Button you up,
Leaving intricate patterns
That tell your secrets
With every thread.
You'd breathe like a mermaid,
The scent of the sea echoing
In our veins,
Like teenage hearts
Pumped full of lust.
Like heels on marble floors,
But you're so
You're blood in my lungs
And air in my heart,
But I live only
Off the raindrops
That fall from
Your soft, sea-stone eyes
When a smile curves your lips.
(I carve you in the sand,
But ocean tears
Wash you away.)
fungibledecoding the coda
distracts from the glance
to chance a trance
code inked down her back
snowflakes from fingertips
rest, recoil and draw
the energy she's seen
in the space between
climbing only to fall
Evening Poems9 o'clock and
a nightingale song
from a starling winged night
in perfect mimickry.
The moon and her mandrake
baby screech whites,
peel trees to bone. Blacks
The stars meet
at hush- Deaf but eternal
jury. Atlas, stung by
each daughter: a pinhole
truth, still naively serene
after all they've seen: from dove breath
to flame. All
is a curse to the lampbearers.
The moon holds court.
Great judge, her metals bleed
into radiance, cleave twilight to hill.
She bobs socketless
through aether and flame, &
to her gleaming calm
all shadows die. No illusions survive
but reflection, who steeps wood in
moonwhites, petrifying old life into
holds voice at night's throat -
pulls light through sea's veins
and tightens light's rope,
weaving candle across
the skyline to bless
something older than memory,
more tender than breath.
a will o wisp promise
She sits all alone by the sea
before the empty stretch;
whispered winds wandering through,
without any hope
of a realisation.
The hush of skin on skin,
such submission in her posture
to shimmy past boulders and pebbles alike
into the vast emptiness --
what a wonderful death it is. To drown.
Wooden clunk of boats
rocking against the gentle, rippling tides;
brightly painted sides
and glowing edges
and well-ripened lichen and a lining of barnacles
which soothes the onrushing memories.
Gravel-like hiss of sand on the
sloping route up wooden stairs,
creaky, crumbling boathouse;
faded outlook under grey-blue clouds:
your ship doesn't pass by this place any more.
Maybe that's why these shoes hang,
odd pair as they are,
in these nooses
underneath the water
facing that clear, heavy sky
where we used to walk,
the sun and I.
this little thing called a manalas, i sit
atop alabaster wisps
of nimbus & cumuli,
bidding farewell to
dancing towards dawn,
& draining into
puddles of cerulean
& i can hear them,
the altos rising from
& fields of porcelain luster,
where not even the promise
of earnest attempts
can cloak the ambience
i'll dine with kings,
but already i've grown hungry
for the vintage
I read a book once about
a beekeeper who
spoke to the bees
with her thoughts,
"I love you. I love you.
I love you. I love
and so I decided
to do the same.
Please do not
I do not wish to
trap you with my love,
I do not cry out,
"Love me. Love me.
Love me. Love
In fact, I do not
want your love at all
if it is not
desperate to reach me
as if it were a plant
thirsty for the sun,
but do not be surprised
if I close my eyes
and chant silently,
"I love you. I love you.
I love you. I love you."
and you start to feel
that you are someone
wonderful and cherished,
as you should.
on the shores of the seadown to the rollicking, rolling sea
and the wash of the waves, and the
blue and the green of surf on the shore
and salt on the breeze and the
grey gull's cry, and the clifftops
and caves and the rockpools and puddles,
the seaweed and petrels, the sand
and the mud and the river's ending,
and the boats going out in the rocking
and writhing, and the dash of the foam
on the ship's broad siding and the
whip of the wind or the gold-painted sky
as the sun settles down and gives way
to the night.
then the gentle lap of the sea-mother's tongue
on the shore of the evening, and the mermaid's
song humming through shadow and the clouds
scudding free through the water, and the sudden
storm in the deep, and the starlight the clearer
for the broadness of sea, and the ocean's brief
fury and her tenderness too, and the days in the
sunshine and the nights of the moon, tidelines
and seashells and fish in the deep; and
dream-speckled whalesong in the night lost at sea.
In my father's house there are many rooms
(Only one gun cabinet)
A cross hung over my grandmother's
bedroom door for thirty two years
Her phone rang late on a Saturday night
She was the last person he called
The sun rose early the next morning
The cross was taken down
so here's the thing:i feel like a tired little
skeleton wearing the
same shirt 1, 2,
3 days in a row, knuckles
drumming along the knobs
of my spine and fingers
be twe en the rib bones
that flash in the sun and create
shadows on my skin
and listen, everybody wants to be
skinny but i want to sleep and it's funny
, i don't want my bones to
skick out at
but my stomach isn't
enough and i
scorn my thighs
for not being toned
and listen, my nose is too big and so are
my pores but i'm never getting a nose job
and those strips are too much work and listen,
i'm tired when i stay up too late and i'm
tired when i sleep in and i'm tired when i give myself
a normal sleeping routine for once and
listen, it doesn't see
whitewe go out exploring the
i watch the gulls fly and alight in the snowfall.
they are trapped inside of their bodies,
implying something freer,
than what it is
that i am.
in a fallen space,
all this crushed snow falling.
the shore fills with shapes, white
as in formed.
not yet filled.
we stand together
and winter is a riverlessness.
all the horses and dogs hidden in niches,
tended to like fire.
we walk through what falls,
growing hungry is what we
and because innocence is cancelled by
we do terrible things
in our hunger.
in our footfalls,
our chewing sounds.
the surf pounds the ice
that bergs up between the water
and the land.
the surges flash green-white,
the gulls are crying out.
we see so far ahead.
into a half-space
where things don't matter.
we desire whatever it is.
to coast just so.
the water is tempting to me.
the waves batter and soothe the backs
of vanished fish--
their being unseen is what
white noiseThe only thing that seems to keep the world out of my head these days
is white noise
it's a rush of excitedly flapping wings
it's nothing you could grasp but a sound and a colour that is none
I try to keep the world out
(she is playing her music too loud too much these days)
and I think of you, ears buzzing with white noises until they ache.
And I catch myself thinking
I wish you were my white noise -
the sound in between my heartbeats,
the same words whispered so close to my ear they sound like beautiful little secrets,
the rock I cling to when the waves crash violently all around me to keep from drowning, I wish you were
my home, my favourite pair of arms, my heart, my safe place, the one to soothe my mind.
I wish you were so many more things
than just far away and as impossible to touch
as white noise.
diamonds, bones, and oak spirits(moussaieff)
like a petal,
i fall in spirals to the grounds of the garden,
leaving my sorrows on rosebuds
as i pass by --
hoping to see them crystallize,
hoping to see them grow,
hoping beyond hope that they will shed
tears of their own.
i've bent my bones
like stars reflecting off lake wobegon
or a dragon undergoing psychoanalysis,
so i dream a little dream
of your coffee shop around the corner --
about the silky espresso sunrises
melting my already fragile skeletalia
and transforming me into a career man.
here's the thing:
i don't like driving sports cars,
or trying to fit into limousines,
or drinking pricy champagne
at benefit dinners for people who don't exist;
i don't enjoy this new life
any more than i did the old.
i want more than anything
a good massage therapist
who knows her way around the lumbar,
who could maybe loosen up my
too-tight hold on reality for just
a moment, just long enough for me to
catch my breath and learn how to walk again.
SolarThe light breaks into
your house, where you sit facing
east. In the sky, a
dragon rises, flaming, and
gives birth to a golden sun.