Flypaper Thoughts

Published July 19, 2019 by Nan Mykel

Today I could talk straight through until I die and not tell you half my thoughts, history and fellow travelers. None great but I was there and lived it all. So much, all the time. Little things, big feelings–I am an Indian mound full of artifacts, a wrapped present on Christmas morning, full of surprises, not all good. These atypical thoughts will leave me, but here they are for you to see, caught on my flypaper.

Moon casts her shadows

A plop sounds in the old creek

Night birds croon their songs

And I sleep…

Image:Ruth Scribbles.com

Grey Haibun for d’Verse

Published February 19, 2018 by Nan Mykel

Night regurgitates day in images that ride their REM waves, waves that slap the hard beach repetitively, incessantly, omnipresent in the fog of sleep and in the spaces between the incidental, accidental thoughts that drift by during timeouts in the day. Like now.

Endless road ahead

Moonlight summons old spirits

The Earth a cocoon

THE TROLLEY RIDE — a haibun

Published January 11, 2018 by Nan Mykel

If you ride a trolley long enough you’ll come to the end of the line. You can then remember the sights and stops, the riders that come and go. Maybe trouble on the line, cross words or banter, perchance the frozen grim look of out-of-sorts folks. Perhaps that little girl with lollipop all over her face. But search the faces–all of them–whose do you want to see?

poppinjay alights

trolley’s fare is much too high

clickety clack lack

Haibun for Dverse 6-6-16

Published June 6, 2016 by Nan Mykel

So here it is: The master of the uninverse either has a devious sense or humor or gets terribly bored at times. For instance, He planned and plotted that one little bunch of His creatures live out of sight, underground, for fourteen years (sic). Then apparently a clarion call sounds and they all creep upwards to see the light of day, and sing (though it sounds like a buzz to some). Someone has actually written a musical score for their buzz-song. They will mate and insert their eggs into tree bark and then the nymphs (I kid you not) will begin their long dark night of the soul. (That is, if a bird doesn’t eat them first). They are members of the Magicicada genus.

Inexorable,

the great ball of twine unrolls

who is to question