the yellow lights shone
through darkness’ bones and flesh
flashing oily death
.
haiku
Category Archives: bones
eloquence
you touch my weathered
rib
bones in sequence
playing
all the old tunes
again
.
not quite
a haiku
in my alone
i grow up to be
a tree-speaker
a rain-bone
a raven’s wet throat
.
haiku
won’t iv
if I wait til death
do us part, will wind through bones
speak our final ills
.
haiku
Loba
.
she moonlight-calls her to me and me to her
her fingers of soft-rough fur, here is utter dark
brings something of a growl ( not a purr ), ignites the spark
in a flash of lightning , a white thing, the shape of air
unutterable darkness shields a priestess
sexy as a mystery, saturates the senses
.
do you hate me for the wildness
of my perfect pelt, the language of my brazen throat
you cannot understand, you cannot capture, don’t fret, don’t rest
the stricken faces of the night felt, the quickening of my breast
.
do you prefer me as a acquiescent sheep
do you curse this form that disturbs your sleep
does the lightness of my lope, the meatiness of my breath
cause the whispers of the hair rise from your neck
.
i check the mirror, front and back
lick the maws of my primal authentic voice
that calls my majestic spirit to rejoice
for i am rank-stink-inked
kicked alive again to bless
awaken this mess of flesh
i am bone and fang
i am woman and pack
i am wolf i am wolf i am wolf-woman-whispers
i am the madonna, the giver of moonlit rivers
i am grit- dirt-bearer of younger gifts
blood-howl of shape-changer, the angel-author
of older myths than now exist
do you know me now
do you fear my howl
for i am love , raw, pure, love
slipped from darkness’ glove
.
not a haiku
.
.
NaPoWriMo day 8:-Today’s prompt comes to us from this list of “all-time favourite writing prompts.” It asks you to name your alter-ego, and then describe him/her in detail. Then write in your alter-ego’s voice. Maybe your alter-ego is a streetwise detective, or a superhero, or a very small goldfinch.
distance
‘you’ve spoiled the way the tree hangs’, he muttered in passing, the man i’d watched from across the orchard with admiration, imagining some future passion. His torso glowed in the low summer sun. Sweat over taunt muscles, golden fuzz glued, caught in highlights, his face averted, his shorts short and tight.
When he approached me, i’d gasped at the intense scent rising from his body, that eclipsed the perfume of the apples dangling from the branches and fermenting in the grass. I’d felt quite dizzy from it, perched as i was, dangerously high on my ladder.
‘is that a fact?’ i’d offered to his back.
A beautiful, rippling study of manly motion and determination, he attacked the tree next to me with his secateurs. ‘yep’ he said, under his breath, ‘get some perspective’.
i climbed down from the ladder, took a few steps away and surveyed my own tree, glistening with rosy fruit, littered with severed branches and foliage, listing slightly.
He’d made no bones of it. I laughed. He was probably right.
In this tender light, this splendid afternoon spoiled, i removed my ladder to a further tree and began again.
i left my thoughts hanging
.
not a haiku
.
The prompt is based on Robert Hass’s remarkable prose poem, “A Story About the Body.” The idea is to write your own prose poem that, whatever title you choose to give it, is a story about the body. The poem should contain an encounter between two people, some spoken language, and at least one crisp visual image.
inclusivity
whistle of death bones
a lively rhythm of songs
we all join in on
.
haiku
barbaraturneywielandpoetess 