This woman,
collar locked high
against old wind
in the half hall
of her youth,
but clean words collect
in her head
as she steps
away
from lost windows
and rooms
to lean towards
the narrow lane,
where she sculpts
a path through briars
to the gate.
More at http://mariemacsweeney.com.
I collect in my mind
the concert
where we shouted
and danced
riverside avocado
and chicken lunches
travel to the larger
waters of the coast
hosting and holding
and living together.
night’s end
silhouettes of stars
lay in the sun’s shadow
—–
pieces of driftwood
answering your questions
blown out candles
—–
spring horizon
settling down
the long distance snow
—–
moonlit dusk
the drift of the old oak
in the empty wallet
—–
pieces of driftwood
ebb on the shore
winter sunset
—–
scents from a bubble bath
on the low laying sun
a shadow of stars
—–
spring horizon
a line of cocktails
washing away memories
—–
forgotten memories
meander in the stars
above lay lowing clouds
—–
winter horizon
echoes of your dreams
on distant constellations
—–
scent of vanilla
in the bubble bath soap
spring sunrise
You’d never be sorry
to see the wound or the
gash, in crumpled leaves
water trickling down
parched throats, thirsty
this isn’t a desert
this is a song
volleys dilly dallying
Atoms cool in the roundness of new night.
A searing hiss as suns settle into skies.
Planets sigh and sway into first sleep.
Trees bed down in those dark patches
of warm earth, shiver as waves
coax water upward over sand
and the electric swing of a storm
is left dangling overhead…
After birth tremors subside
is a lull
and we lie curled up
on raw soil,
our new hearts thumping wildly
when we are drawn up,
bone by howling bone,
left standing…
Like falling backwards down a dark,
spiral staircase and bouncing painfully off
many stairs and banisters on my way
until finally awaking to the light
upon the thick dandelion-seeded
bottom with a gasp and a childlike chuckle.
That’s what it was like waking up with you
for the very first time… no longer lost!
More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
pieces of driftwood
answer questions
blowing out candles
More at https://twitter.com/Haikuintraining.
You can start at the memories
Of putting on your dad’s shirts
Pretending to be a detective
Because they were trench coat long
Then you can fast forward
To the pushing and shoving second grade
Boys’ restroom, nestled in the valley
The tractor mailbox on the way to high school
The long pacing telephone conversations
With a girl you never wanted to date
The gradual understanding that you were different
Somehow, not sure really, but just subtle variance.
I am dying India dying
give me some poison
and let me live a little
bite the dog
kill the moon
eat the sun
wallop the wind
hound out people
I am dying India dying
let me breathe a little
kill a little
walk a little
love a little
I am dying India dying
in your bosom
let me live a little
palpitate a little
curl up in your huge
arms a little
I am dying India dying
let me glorify all your deeds, misdeeds, crimes, killings, floods just
that
little bit.
I am dying India dying
in your living, vapid breath.
In all this time I haven’t traveled very far
Stayed nearby, a stone’s throw, a short ride
To everything, the landmarks of my life,
Those milestones that measure the years —
I can still get to my childhood home in ten
Minutes, maybe less if traffic isn’t too deep.
I work across the street from where I went
To grade school, went to college a short bus
Ride away, my college was across the road
From where I was born, still go to the church,
When I go, where I was baptized. I’ve been
Shopping in the same stores so long that
They’ve come to know me and never ask me
What I’m looking for, because I buy the things
I bought last week, last year, and years before.
Why, I’ve been married to the same person for
Forty years, our wedding was in my college’s
Chapel — across the road from where I was born.
These distances satisfy me, convince me that
Fate is enough. I rarely tampered, or meddled,
Or even raised my hand with a question. I am
Simply at home in the small place that I am.