Astir (Haiku)

Before the first rain

the Poets all woke and spoke

of their sense of smell

Painting by Apollinary Vasnetsov [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Bountiful ball

The harvest moon is up
and my stomach does not growl.
There is churning in the earth,
the reaper is due-

But none look when he arrives.

There is the usual warm glow
where a sinister mood once brewed.

Alas, there is no warmth or desire-
I am no longer hungry.
The moon goes on along
shining orange and strong...

at least the grass is getting greener.

Stress test

Can you tell it's right if you hold it up to the light?
Do you know if it is better than good
if it can be completely understood?
Is it the ideal size-target market wise?
Does it truly sound like all the others that abound?
Is it flammable, is it like the animal
in us-
indigenous?
Is it harmonious or relevant, erroneous and malevolent?
Does it make you dance in some clandestine way
Does it have something significant to say?
Then-
is it worthy
to be called poetry?



Painting by Marie Spartali Stillman, Love Sonnets (1894) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Silent H

If I tried to hide something from you,

would you know?

Would you become suspicious,

or let it go?

If I no longer listened to your voice-

don't you think it would be by choice?

If I argued with everything you said,

wouldn't this make our conversations dead?

If I began sneaking around,

would you begin peaking around?

If I were stockpiling and recycling secrets-

would it whet your whistle to relax your own rules-

Let's

pretend we are still fools...

If I keep playing the oblivious game,

would you keep dealing villainous blame

Excuses?

Nothing is fair in love and truces;

someone's got to give

and someone's going to live

Honestly.

Painting by Delphin Enjolras [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Half-wit Habitat

They came to me too,
just like you, the birds and the water,
serenity instead of sheep.

Yet the insistent migration,
predictably precisely on
Time,
became
beyond mesmerising.

Understanding holding your breath,
sonar is like sleep talk, let me translate,
Chosen few.

Including the enduring frigate flyer
over vast continents of saltwater-
suspended
with nary a place to land and nest.

A rare sight does not make it fantasy,
pteridactyls still soar
for weeks and weakly
catch flying fish in the skyway,
Survivor skills.

Flocks and pods abound,
we in the middle-straddled here
gasping for air, too bloated to fly
and in one eye,
masterminds
one half at a time.
Meanwhile, we Sleep
grazing.




Painting by François Boucher, Arion on the dolphin, (1748) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Plan B

All had gone according to Plan-It was confirmed.
Who made the Plan?
The one with the most Experience.
If they were experienced, why make a plan?
Things don't always go-
according to Plan,
even if it has been done (before).
Is this a new ending?
It is only the beginning.
We must Start over.
In the end...
(pursuant).


Drawing By John Bunyan [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

Full Title: A Plan of the Road From the City of Destruction to the Celestial City, Adapted to The Pilgrim's Progress, 1821.

Rhymes with Bucket

As an echo gargles the ells
Is that All
                 I've got
given it  _  All-
-pulled back, squint in-
        -tensed up-
Un-wound,
I begin to see specifically
out of line
drops
in
the bucket...
...
..
.
By the way: (I lost sight of mine
I, me-I, me, mine
and All those
hollow no's)

Enough is Enough
to go around
for each of us plus
it's All superfluous.

Half-full, half-baked,
half-witi-schism-
wrung wry
and completely empty I be,
sufficiently still sere here
unilaterally.


Image By FOTO:Fortepan — ID 92566:  Adományozó/Donor : Unknown. [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.