Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017: #5

Micropoetry MonthI’ve only attempted one Fibonacci poem before and that time I went up to 21 syllables (8 lines). This time the muse was more generous: 10 lines with 55 syllables on the last line! Is it still micropoetry?

Give it a shot anyway! The number of syllables in each line follows the Fibonacci sequence  (0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55…)!

Bring your own micropoem to the party – any form, no form, whatever inspires you today! Use the comments form or Mister Linky to share!



life just

birthed itself

let’s just say we are

part amoeba, part fish, part ape,

even part question wilting in the rain, still waiting

for the melding of machine and man that will explain what there was before gravity,

what happens when we stare at oceans and skies, why certain words know how to bind themselves into poems, why love is more difficult than hate,

lets say this as we argue over colour of skin, as we craft an apocalypse, as if that matters more than moonlight streaming into our eyes, unobserved, part gill, part opposable thumb, part petal, part sun, part answer.


Ice cream…and stuff

But he won’t argue, his beatific smile is either answer or
question, both blue solvents like the bottomless sea. He’s only a

minor god, an acquaintance of sorts, like people you meet
sometimes on the bus, a nod, a few questions, weather and

such, you never even ask their names. But now he talks about ice
cream, no dairy, no sugar, no chocolate, it’s all the rage, he says,

it’s how you save yourself and the world. That’s when it started.
Saving the world is his job, I countered, why put the load on my

shoulders when my life is just the length of a shrug, why create,
ruin, then create more to clean up the mess, there is a point when

this game will lose all meaning. One day, I tell him, there will be no
one, just a flotilla of bodiless souls, streams of consciousness snaking

through the dusty light and then what will you have achieved? That
brought the smile. Maybe it was a question. Which is the burden?

Leaving behind a slightly better universe, living like there is actually a
tomorrow, or believing that someone, he, is going to stop the

apocalypse just before the credits roll? Or maybe it was the
answer- you cannot alter the master plan. I try the gelato, an

unfamilar coldness, the taste of the morning sky after it has rained
all night. What do you think, he smiles again. Question and Answer.

This poem was published today on Life in 10 minutes.
More poems in the “monologues with a minor god”  series here.

Half Past Dawn

,saturday morning, ashen, as if this monsoon has stapled itself
to the sky and will never leave, the deluge will wash away

everything, even sins, even sinners, the levitating fear that
woke me up before dawn is still rising, though I’m afraid the moon

will be much too cold to touch, the numbness with which I greet
the news is surrounded by a hollow moat that aches as a flaccid

sun wakes, how much more, a woman is killed, a child is raped,
hurricanes line up in the ocean like planes waiting to land, maybe

if the earth opens up like an orange, so we can fix it wedge by
wedge, stripping fibre, spitting out bitter seeds, biting into

summer, remember the juice running down our chins, we were
laughing, not a cloud in the blue, the sky schooling us to cover

our blemishes, it is raining again, someone is gathering clothes
hung out on the line, blue jeans, wet as fear, the saturated ground

is refusing rain that pours and pours, the sea, filled with storms,
is refusing water, so it waits, turning the colour of absent light,

a bleeding orange, unwedged, how much more, the hollows ache as
they drown the dead, but we are laughing, wiping juice on our collars,

pointing at the untainted sky, the moon, wrapped in cloud, is cold
as ice, summer burning my throat, saturday morning, half past dawn,

Calling it Dawn

shame breeds virulent
in the unctuous air, heavy,
a metallic bitterness at the back of the mouth,
as if something is giving way,
as if something is being pulled apart,
as if the vapid smiles of bystanders
have come unstuck
and filled the sky, covering the stars,
as if light is being reeled in
by a heavy sigh,
as if we lie bare with an uncertain moon
making distant love,
and talking afterwards,
changing the names of things,
twisting ends and beginning,
turning happy inside out to cry,
sweaty hands of the night
leaving wet prints on words
that remain in the corners,
stubbornly trapped between fingers, under nails,
later, scrubbing the shame
off the sky,
pointing to the last of the light
caught in the treetops,
laughing, calling it dawn.


Soft skin dimpled,
as the horizon curved into a smile.
It was time.
Blood was baying for blood.

as the horizon curved into a smile,
gathering the dregs of the day,
the falling night knew,

it was time;
the jewelled scimitar was at its throat,
pushing deeper,

blood was baying for blood,
he felt the sky heave,
outside, a city screamed.

Trimeric – a four stanza poem in which the first stanza has four lines and the sequence of lines in the next three stanzas is abcd, b – -, c – -, d – -.