?

Log in

No account? Create an account
bear by san

March 2017

S M T W T F S
   1234
567891011
12131415161718
19202122232425
262728293031 

Tags

Powered by LiveJournal.com
bear by san

Not a haiku

For some reason--perhaps idle conversation with leahbobet and buymeaclue and katallen about juvenilia--I'm moved to dust off some of the Poetry, Which I Don't Write Any More Because I Have Nothing To Say, and which I have never really had much drive to publish.



But, in the interests of content, here's one, short and sweet and not a haiku, exactly, but more like a love poem.

The horse wise to rattlers

rears at the stacatto

of leaves blown over stone


***

And here's another one in the interests of an election year.

***

On Election Day my mother washed your hair

and combed it into a fluffy halo.

She helped you on with your old black coat

and took you down to the school

where I had had kindergarten.


There explaining to the nice man

that you could no longer see

and that she would go in with you

to read the ballot.


You leaned on her arm

shuffling feet that pained you

so badly we had moved you

to the bedroom closest to the bathroom

so you would not have to walk so far.


A bystander wept as my mother helped you forward.


You did not come to adulthood

as I did

standing beside your mother

behind the curtain

lifted up in her arms

to help her pull the big red lever.

Girls didn’t need to learn that

in 1912.


***

This is not a love poem:

***

Desperate scuffing

of feathers on slickness

warm hammering

pulse beats in throat

uncomprehending

claws and beak meet

frictionless chill --


It's bright within

bright within

bright within

but out of reach.



Elsa, draw the curtains

while you're up.


***


And a little something for everybody back East:

What the hell! -

It's all rot

And it stinks, but

I grub it in anyway

Bruised fruit, discarded peeling

Rank flesh and worm-riddled meat.

Nursing a blister,

Dig deep, and let it rot.

Turn, till, compost, wait...

Let it freeze until time for planting:

Let it rot.


Say it like an incantation:

Spring will come,

Spring will come,

Spring will come.



I never did manage to write a vilanelle.

Comments

You're right, it's not a love poem. :-)

Villanelles are tricky rooms to paint. Movement is hard within that obsessive little space.

---L.
Oh, 'Two Noble Kinsmen.'

Avoid at all costs, except in the interests of curiousity *g*
Hey! Anyone interested in learning how a Jacobian dramatist would adapt Chaucer's Knight's Tale to the stage should see it at least once.

---L.

"On Election Day"

I'm not sure if it's memories of my grandmother or how I'm feeling this morning (over-emotional?), but that made tears spring to my eyes.

Re: "On Election Day"

*hanky*

I think you would have liked my grandmother. I bet I would have liked yours.

I read this.

I have found this post very interesting.
Stories on http://stories.dmozx.org
http://stories.dmozx.org