Will I go seeking absolution,
dragged down by the shackles
of sin in my swollen belly, or
ship out soundlessly from my berth
into the eternal matrix
where sins are but a fleet of
rubber duckies?
nm 2014
Will I go seeking absolution,
dragged down by the shackles
of sin in my swollen belly, or
ship out soundlessly from my berth
into the eternal matrix
where sins are but a fleet of
rubber duckies?
nm 2014
THE TRANSITIONAL OBJECT
We were lucky, in our play pens
to mouth our blankies to ourselves,
connected to a piece of us,
still attached to the lifeline’s warmth,
its unerring stability
pointing to our own north star.
Sounds carry. Tucked asleep into my first berth,
I have no ticket to ride, no known destination.
Black-capped conductors, uniformed and faceless,
pass silently all night down darkened aisles.
The gentle jostling of the carrier and its faraway
howling are fast becoming deja vus.
Baby has a mouse in her mouth, but leave it.
She may need the protein.
Sprouting myelin sheaths encoding both
memories of dreams and dreams of memories
pulse in concatenation with the tempo
of the great clickety clacking conveyor.
Faces of inaccessible passengers
flash past on other lines, here and near, then gone.
Zhivago futilely bangs on the window
for Lara’s attention, then terminal separation.
Nan Mykel 9-7-09
DAVID
We always thought her meek and mild
until the day that she went wild
and fell in love with an antique Greek,
or should I say a Greek antique?
She gave a moan and then a shriek
that echoed through the whole boutique
and without a pause
with hands like claws
she clasped him to her ample bust,
moved not by piety I think but lust.
As a matter of fact he was scantily clad
and to tell the truth I think she was glad.
(My library group came up with all of these prompts:) delicious, horse, croissants, eviction, pardon
SIGH.fOR THE FIRST TIME THERE WAS A “magical widget,” and I had not the credentials or smarts to navigate the route apparently everybody else can. But I tried…
Haiku by Issa:
“Without you –
how vast
the cherry blossom grove”
My first halibun, and I had to look the word up on Wiki. Problem is, when I search
my mind and heart for a “you,” no one answers. May be no one ever had that
experience. The cherry trees are blossoming at this moment along the Hocking,
nearby, and I am a little sad, but it is night and cold and dark. Maybe the sun will
rise as promised, and I can be touched by beauty after all.
When cherry trees bloom
I know that the world is still
alive and lovely.
WORDS
Words can TOUCH.
Words can chatter.
Words can tell you
what’s the matter.
Words can cut,
splice and dice.
In other words,
be not nice.
Lying words
I’ve come to hate;
Embers dying in the grate.
Empty words like love
and forever
go poof like bubbles
In bad weather.
So what can I say
when all is done?
Add a grain of salt
To everyone.
Nan
Come jump into my arms, you furry-feathered verse!
I’ll know you when I see you, either wordy or terse.
Let your metaphor roll in like an occupying force;
sit up high in your saddle on your literary horse!
A shining black stallion, he snorts and passes by
leaving a desolated mule who gives a piteous sigh.
My metaphor has four legs and is not a happy guy.
He does not jump into my arms or even give a try
but nuzzles me as though to say,
“Thanks for waiting for me today.”
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