Little images on big trees

We will become myth. And they will paint us
under the giant wheels of insatiable want, they
will sing of us as thieves who stole from the
bowels of the earth, they will write of us as fools
who burnt our own home, they will carve little
images of us on their big trees as warnings to

their children, we will become metaphors for
depravity, we will be the ones the gods went to
war with, we will be the ones that won and the
ones that lost, the ones that made the hole in the
universe that no one would ever fill — my own
favourite is the scratched outline on a cave wall,

where the vanquished earth is a rancid berry in
the beak of the death bird, tasting of human folly —

 

 

 

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Micropoetry Month: Nov 2017: #20

Micropoetry MonthWhile I prefer to break away from the 5-7-5 scheme and other traditional haiku rules, I still think haiku or senryu (in its modern avatar) should seize the essence of a moment anchored in the close observation of nature. This is truly the hardest form of poetry to get right- to be simple yet profound, layered yet obvious, beautiful yet utterly truthful.

(1)

contrary-
contrary to the summer rain
this endless waiting

(2)

pleated morning
she hides my unfinished dreams
in her folds

(3)

mangled sky
together we watch 
orange tulips filling with rain

Share your haiku or any other form of micropoetry using comments or Mister Linky!

 

Was it Better?

Was it better when
we exalted wind and earth
and sea and sky
and bowed to them as gods,
was it better when
we hadn’t stripped
tempests of their arrogance,
penumbras of their veil,
the eccentric moon of her moods,
when the only dreams we had
came from birds and stars
and there were no words,
so from a single smile
we could make up a million stories,
everything we needed
we found in clouds shaped as deer
and deer that broke the
mist on the morning hills,
now I feel you shift in your sleep
a shiver curling into the space
between us,
the rain drifting down
my window pane gives me
a curious glance,
and I wonder what it might
have felt like
to never look for shelter. 

Little notes

flowers must be nature’s
little coloured notes,
that instruct, inspire,
that question,
that answer, sometimes,
that whisper that I’m not alone;
I need four,
oh and that one, still unopened,
just to get through the morning news.

Processed with MOLDIV

Unfaithful Eyes

there was ocean spray reaching for the sky
and footprints scurrying after the emptiness,
they should have wrought ballads on eternity and ephemera,
on opaque time and transcendental light,
something about a grain of sand
and how the part is a manifestation of the whole
or maybe it is the other way round,
at least a verse or two about ungrateful moon tides
or karmic gratification of the raspy brine,
maybe love or yearning, definitely yearning,
but even the waves here are resurrected in silence,
the beach is a wordless graveyard,
the sea an unspeakable womb,
the horizon stretches like a blank line, unreachable,
unteachable,
what need do we have, the wind asks,
for another poem,
everything is said, anyway, each sunset,
here, throw away your lying pen,
wrap the darkness around your unfaithful eyes,
they see what they want to see,
make them listen.

Update: Elizabeth at SoulsMusic has written a poem inspired by a couple of lines from this one. She calls it Grain of Sand.

Moon Song

the shifting shadow inside me
that still communes with that moon,
they were as one before the beginning,
riven by another unspoken ending,
two parts of a whole,
the finite light and dark
still waxing and waning
between them,
in perfect symmetry.

For the micropoetry prompt at Real Toads