Little Pigs

Sticks and stones break things

if they’re thrown.  But they build

if they are planted.

 

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a silly (or maybe not) little haiku

I Miss You

There is truth in what they say
about Time being a healer.
I resisted his attempts
at mending my heart,
wanting to feel the sharp ache,
thinking that if it became dull
I would lose the outline of your smile,
the fullness of your laugh,
the intensity of your eyes.

But he caught me sleeping at my post
and crept in with iodine and plasters.

Somehow the pain has mellowed
like a rich Merlot
and is lined with a soft sweetness —
the gentle reminder of your love,
the resounding echo of your voice:
“Courage, comrade.
Fix your gaze on the author
and run with steadfastness
the course marked out for you.”

And so I run,
encouraged by your witness,
surrounded by a great cloud.

But as I run,
I recall our synchronised gait
and I miss you
all over
again.

Leftovers

Little bits from Halloween
— over purchased (purposely?) —
sit and sing sweet tunes to me,
“Eat me! Eat me!”
and so I comply.

Gradually they disappear.
I know where these candies go:
To my hips.

 

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This prompt from Poetic Bloomings.  It is a Boketto.  A Boketto consists of two stanzas, One of five lines (30 syllables – 7,7,7,4,5) and a three line (17 syllables – two seven syllable lines and a three syllable line which becomes a refrain if a string of Boketto are written). It expresses a single moment in time!

Always Comes Back

She did it to her mother —
Dropped her 8 month old baby on the doorstep
and with little more than a hello
said goodbye.

She followed the sounds of the city
with her head full of notions
and her eyes full of stars.

The next year she returned
and after a week of visiting
left another deposit in her wake.

She only returned when her third child,
at the age of four,
was raped by a neighbourhood boy.

Then her mother was diagnosed.
And died.

Cursing fate
she went to work
cleaning toilets.

Yesterday
her now 16 year old daughter
left a crying bundle on the bed
and fled.

“Why?” she slams the word against the ceiling.
She didn’t ask for this.

But our past
always comes back
to haunt us.

Stagnant Waters

Two men talking,
arguing,
fighting,
each wanting the other
to listen,
to hear,
neither willing to let the other
finish a sentence,
complete a thought.

They walk away angry
in opposite directions,
cursing each other
for lack of insight,
for narrow-mindedness,
for shallowness of self-interest.

Neither loved.
Neither sacrificed.
Neither grew.

Cry the beloved country!

apple

thinking i am safe
(hell having passed through)
i breathe
on my knees
in relief
only to discover
i am in the eye of the storm.

if i am indeed the apple
keep me in your heart
for i cannot withstand
another assault.

let me hide,
nestled in quills,
covered in down,
as the gale roars round.

let me be wrapped
in metered timbral tone
and filled with joyous praise.

filled with joyous praise.

Empty Fortress

I have learned
in the heat of the moment
to still
myself
to the point of death.

Rivers may run from temples,
clouds may crowd round spires,
I batten windows against the approaching storm.

Languidly
drawing a cavernous breath and meting it out slowly,
I receive every furious flurry with calculated calm,
knowing I will out stand them all.

A self satisfied smile
plays about my face
when my enemy is exhausted,
defeated,
deflated.

I don’t bleed anymore.

But sometimes
in the long dark night
I miss the echo
of a beating heart.

pan(go)lin

armour-clad (intro)vert
(trans)versing the african bush
by moonlight
in search of arth(ro)pods

you wear your plates well.
little walking arti(choke),
each step a small balancing act,

silently you go wearing your coat of many scales
under the starry mantle of heaven.

seeking mountainous (mole)hills
you probe with a tongue longer than yourself,
then retract it in ticklish delight,
many minuscule morsels making a mighty meal.

with the blushing sky
you head for (holey) home (ground)

 

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This little poem is dedicated to one of my favourite animals.
The third Saturday in February is World Pangolin Day.
By raising awareness about this intriguing mammal
(who is more closely related to bears than armadillos)
maybe we can help preserve them,
for they are endangered in Asia and threatened in Africa.
Their plates are made of the same material as rhino horns.

Who Will Serve?

NOT I.

and so the day
and the week
and the month
went.

NOT I.

But the end of term was
ME! and
ME! and
ME!

Who can judge
to determine when mercy’s meted out
and when eviction’s apportioned?

Sometimes I think
there are too many ants feeding grasshoppers.

And then I see the fiddle I hold
behind my back
and am thankful
for
grace.

Drawn by Time

The seconds,
measured by hands covering faces,
burst out in uniform micro-eruptions,
then disappear faster than smoke rings.

Like a fly entangled in a spider’s web
so I am tethered to time,
dragged ever onward,
only able to glance back
over caliginous past.

Resignedly I stumble on,
picking up the signs of Cronus,
like burrs,
as I go.

The spirit longs to soar,
with the songs of angels
above the measure of metered marching.

I shall fly.
I shall rise above this flood of flowing Titan.
Some un-day
I shall fly.