A deep-blue handkerchief
On the harbor quay,
amidst the bustle of the crowd,
the hour of parting,
a moment of farewell—
dyed a deep, deep blue!
The hour of parting
refracted in the early dawn light;
on the wet links
of the hoisted anchor;
on the sailor’s sweating hands
hauling in the cast-off lines;
on the foaming wave
escorting the ship to a foreign port.
A moment of farewell,
a glimmer on the harbor quay—
from a single tear
rolling down a burning cheek,
wiped away upon a handkerchief;
upon the farewell’s
deep-blue handkerchief!
whispers through the wall,
medium between woman and girl;
in their breath, it twists like Winter,
ballerina frost out in open air
hauling wall; her back steadfast.
who can say why an angel falls?
now she welcomes Winter
in feathered rags; a doll's shape,
X- X's for eyes that show the without-soul;
still cuddling lips;
inside's new skin's wrapped parts
out cold in your arms
I said I'd do it myself
one branch at a time
I bought a house
and invested in a life
seven years ago, here
The storm was small
but strong enough
to break the tree in half
I am forty
I like a challenge
once in a while
Bitter end of July
and I'm hauling logs
and smiling
Either:
the devil is afraid I'll take over
or God will laugh when I ask
"Can I come in?"
It’s lonely here, at the top,
the manure high and much
to shovel; fertilizer on sale
today! My family business,
hauling and distributing animal,
fecal slop – pungent every
route and obligatory stop...
Quite enterprising to make
good use, of what they eat
and freely let loose --
all nature born to recycle --
?~Wonder if the soul resents what it knows,
the scented consumption of bodies kills
what it grows --
knows what it uses (a generation)
to make love and
strife (life the fickle-begetter of life)
leaves from behind such an
odious spice… Clouds form,
sky spits and rains – man eats,
drinks, sh’ts on all mountains,
in seas on rolling plains. Seems,
no-matter what man produces
involves decay and pile of stink --
When God planned His evolving nature,
did He perhaps have occasion to burp, pinch His Nose,
fart and blink?
my animals overdressed for Christmas Eve
the bat wore mistletoe on his left sleeve
cat and giraffe dressed like Santa that day
Reindeer kept running around hauling a red sleigh
tabby brought peppermint and was dressed in holly
giraffe wore blinking bubble lights that were overly jolly
flamingo was ridiculous, dressed like a drag-queen elf
crow had never looked more unlike herself
zebra and penguin came in wearing a fake carrot nose
they brought in tinsel, frost, and a wheelbarrow of snows
I was frustrated that they had all gone overboard again.
Luckily I was the only one with a white beard on my chin.
Hauling gravel.
A bath filled with seaweed.
Burbles near the stars.
While seeking.
Mental illness is one.
Grappling hooks turned inwards.
Very grave like a bowl of coffee grounds.
Smells ground.
As I grab a speech bubble which can translate anything.
It doesn’t pop.
All I say is-
Gloop.
And the mental illness stoops lower.
It’s in second place, while I’m in third, and guess what? My least favorite movie is first.
Part 1
So, the Old Cat and I were talking this morning. We were in the kitchen. No one else was awake. I was enjoying my first cuppa and he was grooming. We came to the conclusion that Life Is What It Is: Run like mad from the oncoming freight train, and never neglect a nice spot of sunshine.
Part 2
Death is a freight train
hauling cargo to the afterlife~
your ticket is punched,
your departure is scheduled.
Part 3
Let us drink from the waters of forgetfulness
On the shores of the Lethe,
Nearby waits the place of which philosophers spoke
Grasping for the eternal cosmos of being;
Everlasting existence without ego,
Vanity is vanquished when shedding the mortal coil
In-between what was and what is to come~
Transforming into glorious light,
Yearning to be free.
The traitor
seized fond dreams
and rent my soul
on a hurdle of nails
hauling innocence
toward sour odours;
the steel nemesis
christened cosmetic
under searing light
and coerced oblivion.
He flops at rest stops
hid by other sleeping truckers.
He likes the loneliness
as the cab windows gradually mist over
with smokey stars.
Rolling on,
cities of light flare upwards
and beneath them
are the unseen, the dead eyed
that hide under a metro-glare.
Amarillo, Detroit, Tacoma, Richmond,
places packed and stacked
with broken dreams and loose ends.
Just driving; hauling and honking.
No one looking.
Launderettes and liquor stores,
five finger fandangos in the back,
chicken wings and Jack D.
Atlantic City, Apalachicola,
soaking in the slipstream
while America looks somewhere else.
What are you watching America?
Sometimes he thinks
only the coyotes are paying attention.
Roads thread through his fingers.
The Great Lakes shimmer,
Rockies rear-up and ripple,
all those dust painted
played-out rural towns,
the roads are his tunnel
through both beauty and depredation.
Old men on roadside benches
stare unphased by his air horn blare'
as if he himself were an 18-wheeled
rolling exhibit of America itself,
yet no one looks long enough
to care.
Hauling hard my fate I’m weary,
Bearing world of hate I’m weary.
Getting paid a pittance’ my fate,
How you rate me makes me weary.
And after all, how you treat me--
A fish biting bait-- I’m weary.
On your laments on labour woes,
By dreary debate, I’m weary.
And O Krishna, by your discourse:
Fruitless to fight fate, I’m weary.
____________________________
Ghazal | 14.01.2026 | fate, fruit, hate, work/labour
A wintery sun slips under a flat horizon.
No faraway lights guide me,
just this pitch of dark moor and a racing pulse.
I was thinking too much or not enough,
long walks can turn you into
a cart horse hauling around an unlit mind.
The chill air bites through to fear.
Not knowing where I was or should be,
eyes much too wide to measure distance.
Goat paths crisscross under my boots.
A sheep calls to an invisible flock.
People die like this, lost, and blinded
by their own senses. Not I,
I stumble on
to write this down.
red F-150
fancy double cab
huge V10 engine
ebony windows
air conditioning
keyless entry
power door locks
heated mirrors
good for hauling
muddying
off roading
traveling
climbing
racing
truck
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The reindeer folded their hooves in protest
demanding no more rooftop dashes,
no hauling toys in winter’s blustery blast.
Picket signs read: No More Sleigh!
Dasher, his loyal and faithful reindeer servant,
even burned his harness! What should Santa do?
A desperate Santa, opened ZipRecruiter with a click~
Urgent: Sleigh Team, No Flight Experience Okay.
The squirrels showed up with acorn résumés,
gnawing the reins and forgetting the route.
Team Squirrel was speedy, but slightly unkempt,
cheek pouches bulging with ill-gotten tempt.
They zigzagged the skyline, dropping acorns like coal.
Even Santa’s sleigh wobbled left, then right~
At dawn, the squirrels parked crooked on a power line,
cheeks stuffed with stolen candy canes, utterly divine.
There's gravel grinding in my gut; a godless gearbox of grief growling in my belly's black cathedral.
My heart hammers like hell's hooves, hauling the hearse of every hope I ever had.
I eat dirt for dinner and call it divine, choking on crumbs of my own creation.
My lungs lurch like dying engines, exhaling elegies of exhaust and extinction.
Every breath burns a furnace of forgiveness that refuses to cool.
The devil drums on my ribs like thunder made of teeth and tin.
My tongue tastes of tombstones and tar and a sermon spat through shattered glass.
Even silence stabs sharp sanctified hollering hymns of pain through the marrow of midnight.
I am the meat of my own misery devoured by despair divine.
And stll the gravel grins inside me, grinding and glorying in my ruin.
pristine sharp cornered brown box garnishes excitement
we rip him open with anticipation
new merchandise has been delivered!
this box is repurposed for sorting, carrying, hauling, storing
left out in the rain, the box looks sad and sorrowful
we could fold him flat and put him into our dumpster
Or we could burn him up
He has lost his usefulness
difficult to remember now what he brought in the first place
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