Watercolour-blue, paper carded sky, marked on crisp white labels, starry seeds. Black wells of pooling ink,
The waiting crocodiles yawn, illuminated in cool moonlight. Silk strands curling off corn heads writher till white herons set off
Across the coarse brown sand.
Summer takes a sigh
Lungs collapsing in the sun
Birds fly on up-draft
A prompt from dVerse, to explore why we write in the style we do, with a traditional haiku at the end. I’m not sure my response made my why any clearer, but I didn’t realise before I thought about it that this is definitely my style, at least at the moment. I haven’t put in any line breaks as I usually do so you can see it as it is raw. I still and probably always will be growing in the way I write, so this is a snapshot of me now, I guess.
I was gunna use this for Sanaa’s prompt at Real Toads but it doesn’t really count because I didn’t go out to write it, I was in my room looking at my granny square rug on my bed. It does fulfil the idea of just letting the idea come naturally, as the prompt says, ‘as Francis Bacon wisely states; “Write down the thoughts of the moment. Those that come unsought for are commonly the most valuable.”‘ This is a great prompt though, and I’d like to try it again sometime, actually going out next time!
He’s standing in their yard, pine tree green.
His eyes are buried in wrinkles,
Browned and egg head bald.
Straight and very gently tired, corduroy black
Coat, vest, grey shirt, over
Old fashioned suit pants. His whole life is settled here,
Floating down, sloshing in a puddle of time.
Butcher turned baker, he knew the whole town.
His family tragedy, cracked the earth he stood on
Into fissures of volcano soil.
The cracked hearts scarred black
But the old wounds have been covered by new grass for many a year.
Now his old eyes shade kindly when he speaks.
They put his wife in hospital nine months ago,
Four hours every day he slides her way.
He comes out every morning holding the hours precious,
Wrapped in old newspaper,
Carried, breaking eggshells, inside thick and yellow, is all their time.
If he lays them carefully on the faded carpet
Every day when he gets back,
Perhaps they will hold together
A few months more.
The steam engine huge events that have rolled over their puny puddles
Push the water out in heaving waves.
But every time the same water trickles back into the same hollows.
We’ve been through it before, he says.
It’s the new movers in that undo them
Oil to the old water, the puddle thins.
When the old-timers all turn to dust,
Their newspaper lining disintegrated, sodden, gone,
The old place will keep its wheels turning,
With one or two less cogs.
For now the screeching cockatoo and the dank dark pine trees will bear him up
And tomorrow he will see his wife again.
Another one for the metaphor challenge from dVerse! I wasn’t going to, but no one can argue that there isn’t a metaphor here somewhere. I mean if you look really closely. It’s there. Perhaps an extended metaphor even. Somewhere. At this moment metaphor has ceased to look like a real word to me. Metaphor metaphor metaphor. Ok.
Also here’s my other metaphor thing.
The painter philosophical,
Tubby fleeced and rovers boots,
Sermonising, gesturing, he’s a preacher,
Half a Russian dancer,
Half wry smiles and shrugs.
Back to work I guess.
A metaphor challenge today from dVerse. I think I still have a lot to learn about metaphors. 😊
Also this is based on an honest-to-goodness real person I met today, who probably never woke up this morning thinking he would be made into a poem by evening and probably will never know that he was.