through the holes and cracks
strange angels come calling
on phones of wind and light
.
haiku
through the holes and cracks
strange angels come calling
on phones of wind and light
.
haiku
.
summer’s here, not gone, you insist
it’s beauty emptying and fermenting
tempting trees to bare their teeth and throw down arms
though barely September, winds whinge and whine
querulous as a passels of squirrels rustling and thieving stashes of nuts
but autumn comes in hobbling like two old biddies in dirtied petticoats —mouths
prattling, puckered as a skinny cow’s arse and just as fetidly malted
shocking as the hot stench of wolves on the cooled nostrils on a fist of horses
shivering, prickling as a torment of digits in agony on the return of blood as tips thaw out
summer’s not gone… you insist, hunkered into your nest of jewels and tattered letters —
like a tiny brown shrew nibbling whortleberries that stain like gossiped loot —
the colours, taste and scent that lasts well past memory, dribbled and inked in wines
behind preserving glasses- solitarily grasping at remnants of loves and leaves almost gone
to seeds, pulling heads in for a duration you shall not mention or admit —
except in the writing of this
.
not a haiku
.
.
p.s A whortleberry is a forest-foraged berry, also known as a bilberry or huckleberry. Traditionally, after a harvest of them was sent to the kitchens of London and other important towns, ( from Porlock and its environs ) remnants were sent to be used in the dying of airmen’s uniforms. (So i’m informed)
Napowrimo day 26.-
A couple of days ago, we played around with hard-boiled similes. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that contains at least one of a different kind of simile – an epic simile. Also known as Homeric similes, these are basically extended similes that develop over multiple lines. Perhaps unsurprisingly, they have mainly been used in epic poems, typically as decorative elements that emphasize the dramatic nature of the subject (see, by way of illustration, this example from Milton’s Paradise Lost). But you could write a complete poem that is just one lengthy, epic simile, relying on the surprising comparison of unlike things to carry the poem across. And if you’re feeling especially cheeky, you could even write a poem in which the epic simile spends lines heroically and dramatically describing something that turns out to be quite prosaic. Whatever you decide to compare, I hope you have fun extending your simile(s) to epic lengths.
he took both his eyes
from me first ( never used fists )
i ceased to exist
.
haiku
this woman whispers
willing worms winds willow wild
to infiltrate her…
.
haiku
my crown is made of
wind woven rain drops spiders
threaded through my hair
.
haiku
remember the year
when wind was blowing
just so
nothing else was heard
?
.
haiku
napowrimo day 9
.
.
2. open
.
3. be open
.
4. welcome all comers
.
be these :
bees
sun
noses
winds
beaks
butterflies
showers
admirers
murderers
.
5. die
.
6. be borne
upon the wind, transformed
.
7. be LOVE
.
8. LOVE
.
.
also not a haiku
.
btw april 9 2021
.
Our (optional) prompt for the day is to write a poem in the form of a “to-do list.” The fun of this prompt is to make it the “to-do list” of an unusual person or character. For example, what’s on the Tooth Fairy’s to-do list? Or on the to-do list of Genghis Khan? Of a housefly? Your list can be a mix of extremely boring things and wild things. For example, maybe Santa Claus needs to order his elves to make 7 million animatronic Baby Yoda dolls, to have his hat dry-cleaned to get off all the soot it picked up last December, and to get his head electrician to change out the sparkplugs on Rudolph’s nose.
the air before me
curved quiver lift was felt
bees
laughed at a diatance
.
haiku
white wind in my hair
not whipping but lingering
in visible love
.
haiku
what is it
about waves breaking on the shore
that does the opposite to you
what is it
about wind roaring in your ears
that brings the silence to you
what is it
about sand between your toes
that doesn’t grind you
down
what is it
about seagull screeches and salty air
that doesn’t rub the wound of you
just soothes
sounds relentless
constantly constant
washes washes washes
.
N.b
the above is a spontaneous poem that called to be heard…typed and posted….not even written in my book…
it called to me…so mote it be…