To fit ships inside bottles is indeed very clever,
but I would prefer that my bottles held rum.
To ship boats in boxes – though no lofty endeavor –
while sipping on rum could be fittingly fun.
Moral:
Drunk lips drink ships; bottled boats don’t float.
August 6th is the anniversary of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. For the dVerse Monday haibun challenge, poet Frank J. Tassone suggested we write a haibun “that states or alludes to either the Hiroshima attack, or one of the themes of the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Ceremony, such as peace, the abolition of nuclear weapons, or the horror of nuclear war.”
From my place of privilege, I would rather post about my pets, show photos of flowers… you know, the nice feel good stuff. I almost passed on this week’s poetry challenge, but given the current state of the world, I felt it important that I not do so. So, not my usual fare, but in my thoughts:
It never really registered, when I viewed the black and white newsreels. The children, in the street, crying. Some naked, their clothes having been burned off their bodies. Some… I wouldn’t even want to describe it. I wouldn’t want to put it into words, because then maybe it would cease to be a black and white movie, and it would be real. Real flesh and… flesh and…
… the flesh, it was melting off their arms.
Mushroom cloud rising
I can only imagine –
no, not even that
Reluctantly I select one.
Meaningless; set it down.
Bored, I ponder others.
These to the left; those up top.
Angry, I’m seeing red.
To the right with those.
Puzzled, I look up.
“It’s forming a picture.”
“Yes,” smiles the therapist.
“That’s how this works.”
I saw it coming from the start.
It all just sounded too good to be true.
Later it seemed too bad to be true, but it was.
When you tell enough lies, they start to sound true.
Truth hurts sometimes, but only if you believe it.
Lies hurt, too, because truth always prevails.
I never saw it coming.
I am greedy for your charity.
I lust after your chastity.
While some may call me slothful,
I prefer “procrastinatory.”
I admit I’m green with envy at
your temperate humility.
and yet I take great pride in times
my wrath yields to civility.
I’m a glutton for your kindness.
You’re impatient with my pride.
I am sinful, you are virtuous.
You’re Jekyll, I am Hyde.
If you offered me an apple,
in the garden we could hide
With your heavenly companionship,
it’d be one hell of a ride.
Inspired by the dVerse Poetics challenge to write a poem based on the seven virtues (charity, chastity, kindness, temperance, diligence, patience and humility), and the seven deadly sins (greed, lust, envy, gluttony, sloth, wrath and pride).
Like an itch in my psyche,
your insults taunt me.
In truth, am I that abhorrent?
Niggling accusations,
crippling judgments,
peripheral flashes of
forgotten shame…
That and more, you say.
We’ve only scratched the surface.
I really hate the sound of
my own voice.
Scissors in one hand, hen in the other, a couple of quick snips and the wing tips swirl to the ground. Keeps ‘em from ‘flying the coop’, the farmer says. He releases the hen. She takes a moment to regain her balance, then runs to the opposite side of the pen where she flaps and clucks her objections. Isn’t it rather cruel to clip their wings, I wonder? Nah, the farmer says. It doesn’t hurt them, and ‘sides, if they don’t like it, they can leave. The farmer chuckles at the irony of his own joke and reaches for another hen.
boundless sky beckons
anticipation takes flight
gravity prevails
dVerse Haibun Monday — Complexity of Freedom
Along life’s path
we cobble together experiences,
lessons learned, loves lost
and found.
Some leave no stone unturned
in their search for meaning.
Others piece their stones together
along an uneven trail,
and do not mind when
moss gathers to fill in the gaps.
From the dVerse blog for Tuesday Poetics: May 29, 2018: “Here’s what I want you to use tonight as inspiration for your poem. I’ve listed some street names for you, and I want you to imagine what the street is like…or who might live there…or how the name came about.”
The street name I selected from the list is Buttgarden Street.
We pass this way most every day,
my faithful dog and I,
and on this street a man we meet,
his mutt heeled at his side.
We greet as neighbors tend to do
a nod and friendly hi.
Our dogs sniff at their private parts;
we turn a modest eye.
A garden for the neighborhood
some volunteers commenced,
fronts this street for several feet
behind a cyclone fence.
“I wish they’d put this somewhere else,”
my neighbor groused aloud.
“This used to be a quiet street.
Now every day’s a crowd.”
True, many gardeners come each day
to tend their tidy beds.
With backs bent low, they weed and sow,
as blood runs to their heads.
Perhaps someday we’ll see green stalks
of veggies grown with care.
But until then there’s just a crop
of butts up in the air.
I should have taken the I-5 freeway, I tell myself even as I commit to the onramp of I-84 East. Traffic is at a crawl as drivers jockey to merge into the three eastbound lanes. I choose the center lane. A red Volvo in front of me switches to the left lane even though it, too, is at a near standstill. My line begins to move and I pull past the Volvo. I bet they’re sorry they changed lanes. I smile smugly. A mile later, my lane slows, and cars are passing on both sides. The Volvo, now in the right lane, zooms past me. That’s okay. It’s not a race. I stay in the middle lane. Dance with the one that brung ya, right?
drivers on their marks
finish lines are self-described
bring your own trophy
For the next six miles, traffic ebbs and flows. Compulsively, I check my progress against cars on either side of me. No, it’s not a race, but there’s that nagging need to prove that I chose the best lane. I reach my exit and check my rear view mirror as I ease over to the off ramp. The red Volvo is right behind me. Ha! For all its lane changing, I still came out in front. Had it been a race – which of course it wasn’t – I would have won. Yep… dance with the one that brung ya. Fidelity always pays off. Until it doesn’t.
crows raise strident voice
choruses of morning birds
solos every one
What Rhymes with Stanza? 