The desk is clear, dark,
One defined yellow square, post-it note,
Stuck there. Leaning down, I tear it sharply,
Pencil scribbles, just made out,
Says “Call back the dentist.”
I toss it and it floats curving,
A yellow square on the floor, two centimetres from the bin.
Prompt from Poetic Asides to write an information poem, remembering that not all information is created equal.
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.
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.
I was born free; no body owns me
I can sleep on the sand
Following summer into the north
I can cloud drift
To rule the horizon
But I come back to
Beach scented oceans
Again. Because clouds
are still trapped by the earth.
Prompt from dVerse, a Quadrille using the prompt “free” and exactly 44 words. Mines a bit late!
Also drew a bit of inspiration from this corny song from the old Pippi Longstocking movie! https://youtu.be/a7m4vPcfeOE
Summer shoes to be
Discarded, corner tossed
Feet free in the grass
A prompt from dVerse about shoes, I’ve always enjoyed hot weather when I can kick them off! This is a haiku, 5-7-5 syllables. I always have trouble with syllables because when in primary school they taught us to count them by the amount of times our chin went down when we said the word, well with my Australian accent words tend to become a little compressed! Does anyone have a better method of counting syllables?