Haiku 172

Petals on water
Like ballet flats dancing free
Blossoms in the Spring

Who in our midst has betrayed my confidence,
stomped on loyalty for vanity
Rung the bell of insanity
and destroyed vows proclaimed eternity.

Do you know of one without a pack,
freely roams day and night
Feared or loved by candidates
filled with guarded spite.

Have you heard the birth of love,
rose from blood of hate,
And if love fails to bloom
hate declares checkmate.

When comes a redefined “good”
one version unsatisfied,
Desire and necessity interbreed
race of Who am I?

For what cause do I surrender integrity
if I even possess the guts,
To my court of dutiful ma’ams and sirs,
dare join me in scarlet?

The Turning 170

May I repent on short notice
Hate-consumed soul
Ways the serpent coils and hisses
Gasps for air but none.

Trickle down dirty slime
Shiver the porcelain bones,
Flesh eating disease,
Spreads if weakened I fall.

Events unfold unnoticed
Here the body but where the mind?
Bucket of loose ends,
Strange confessions of nonsense.

I pour forth all the wretchedness
Look what creature speaks,
Can you save a once-forgotten human,
Skin of blackened flesh.


With harvest moon comes bloated joy
Contentment on its highest peak,
My basket full of ripened dreams
Of desires picked and trees stripped bare.

When come the full moon night,
barren trees and worn out dreams
The basket lighter than the wind,
Empty but filled with anxious want.

With new seeds contentment dies
burns a hole in wooden weave,
Weight of unheeded prayers
Leaves behind a desperate stench.

Forgotten are the good and fulfilled,
I launch onto another road,
In shoes made from leftover gold,
Winter gone and Spring arrives.

With grass moon comes bloated joy
Contentment on its highest peak,
My basket full of ripened dreams
Of desires picked and trees stripped bare.

rflower graphic

When potent flowers no longer seduce,
the cat has just one life,
Writer and the chopping block
head-to-head; defeat.
Magnified objects in frozen time
drops the jaw too slow,
words come a second too late,
awkward space ensue.

Crowds take talent to remain unseen,
mind and soul detached,
painter and his model–nude–
nothing else but paint,
one duty, one cause for attention,
emotions: distractions,
the trash lady and her uniform,
hand them to her.

Weight of the world is an understatement
add a century a dreams burnt,
Biblical stories of revival and rebirth,
remain grouped letters.
I rest my case deep in sleep
buried painfully,
that poor bird and its broken wing
doubtful hope in death.

Some days I return to that dark cave,
dip my toes into the lagoon,
fall and place my arms above
deeper and deeper the drop,
pressure upon my fragile lungs
mouth opens–
black liquid–
race through opened gap
like strings of death charging against
a dimmed life; a silent soul
drowned by layers of altering questions
with no answers in sight.

Have you seen my voice?
Somewhere in the desert
carcass for the birds.

Have you seen my voice?
Dropped it in a bubbling pot
turned into white steam.

Have you seen my voice?
chained somewhere far away,
rotten in a morbid cell.

If you find my voice,
pry open its fleshy lips,
stitch it to my face,
never close again…

This one’s here to stay