It is so solid, strong, that I feel it must last forever. Until disaster proves that nothing is forever. I feel so solid, strong, I feel I can last forever. Until…
Chalk dust Pastel sky Fragile
***
This was written for Collen’s weekly poetry challenge. This is the first Tuesday of the month, so it is poet’s choice. I chose a haibun with a senryu (or maybe a haiku) that I did in a 2-3-2 form.
I was digging through some old drawings and found this from May of 2001 – 20 years ago! I had just returned from Paris and used a photo I had taken of Notre Dame for this pastel drawing. The cherry trees were in bloom while we were there…
Music Handmade glass bulbs Ancient songs about birth Cheap ornaments bought in childhood Gingerbread
***
The sadly-sweet strains of Vince Guaraldi’s piano fill the air with the melancholy of Charlie Brown, and with nostalgia. I open the package and carefully unwrap the treasures within. I smile at the first priceless item, a box with cheap bulbs from the 1930s bought at an antique store for only a dollar. That was from my first Christmas alone. Next there is a bulb wrapped in tissue from several years later. It was bought at an art gallery for more than the price of 20 boxes of Wal Mart ornaments. But then there are those Wal Mart specials, all gold and red. As I go through the decorations one-by-one and slowly fill the tree, the music changes to the late medieval music of Praetorius. Why did Christmas demand to have a soundtrack that included so much from the medieval and Renaissance? The last bulb up, I stand back as the Roche’s version of Sleigh Ride adds a joyful note to the air.
Bing crones White Christmas Ancient boxes hold treasure Gingerbread spices Sounds heard but once every year Add sparkle to old glass bulbs
Bare branches, half guessed, a darker black silhouetted against void, whisper amongst themselves in the northern breeze. A few last leaves flutter down. A flash of silver is quickly hidden, the magic light extinguished as rapidly as it had appeared. Looking up, I guess where the moon lies hidden behind the blanket of turmoil that is the sky. I wrap my jacket tighter around myself, but can’t stop the moist air from seeping in, hungerly stealing my warmth. The approaching dawn has been hijacked, the sun led astray, for the sky remains that slate grey.
White rim on last leaf Dull glow illuminates grey November dark clouds
***
This was written for Colleen’s weekly poetry challenge. This week we used a theme, which was given by Sue Vincent in the form of a haiku (see below). I wrote a haibun with a haiku for the challenge.
I walk along, breathing the frosty late autumn air. Leaves rustle, speaking as they are moved aside by my feet. But then I pause, silencing their death rattle. Is there another sound? I listen. The trees, some still wearing a wispy shroud of yellow, brown and orange, whisper to me. What secrets will they share?
I am told that the adoring crowds had called his name. He had stood, proud, chin up, condemning all who disagreed as sad losers. His followers chanted back his very words. Is the wind echoing these throngs? Are the words still alive, speaking to condemn all who he perceived as an enemy?
No. A senseless babble about how in the years too many to count, the span of the life of one man is meaningless is all that I hear. He is silenced now, and the words forgotten. Not even the wind will remember.
Wind whispers through leaves Does the tree grow on a mound Its purpose long lost? The mighty king ruled the land Now is just forgotten dust
***
This was written for Colleen’s Poetry Challenge. This is week 200! This is a theme week, and the chosen them is The Illusion of Power. My mind went two ways – the graveyard scene in Hamlet on the one hand, and our current politics on the other. Of course, there is also Halloween coming up… Put together with recently read words about hundreds of grave barrows of forgotten kings, well… I chose to write a Haibun with a Tanka at its core.
I sit, pen in hand, and stare into the distance. The spring has gone dry and the words have failed to flow. But then an image comes to me. Your image. There was a time when poems sprang to the page motivated by your eyes and your smile. Can I once more dip in that well, go back to the root and create something new? I lift my pen to the paper and note down a few dragging words.
I pen you a verse Like one at the beginning When it was still fresh Inspired by a thought of you Source of many silly scrawls
**
Written for Colleen’s Poetry challenge. Each week she gives us two keywords, only we must use synonyms only, not the words themselves. This week the key words were “Origin” and “Write” This week I decided to do a haibun using a tanka as the poem part.
I have missed the last two challenges. For some reason I just wasn’t inspired and nothing came to mind.
I am walking alone down a dark path. The pale December sun fails to illuminate, casting a cold, golden sheen over the land. I pause and look out over the world. Stark shadows, crisp lines prove that summer is a distant memory. As are you. They say the new year brings new light and new hope. I smile, knowing that although colder days are ahead, the light will increase and warmth will return.
Shadows in pale light
Darkness of the dying year
You, my sun, are gone
A new year brings much more light
Perhaps it brings you as well
**
Written for Colleen’s Poetry challenge. Each week she gives us two keywords, only we must use synonyms only, not the words themselves. This week was a “free week” where we could choose our own words. My two words were “illumination” and “return”. This week I went with a tanka and a haibun.
Happy New Year! (The photo was taken on Saturday in Harwich, MA.)
I click ‘play’ on the screen, but it is more than music that pours out. I am being drawn to a different time. The world was young and the people created an exciting, novel version of reality. I can hear it from the speaker, I can feel the groove and the vibe shouting out the changes. It may be old and dated, but it feels fresh and alive, the sound of an eternal search for what has never been seen or felt or heard before. As I listen, nodding my head to the beat, it seems as if there has been nothing created recently that hasn’t been based on these sounds. The song has come to an end and I reach over to lift the needle from the record, but I am back to the present and can only click on the next song.
Times were a changin
Jimi and band played “Hey Joe”
No satisfaction
From a grey conformity
They explored a virgin “now” Continue reading →
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