A porcupine named Prickly Pete
Did doze in his condo in Crete.
When slumber turned sour,
Unleashing his power,
He skewered both a ghost and his sheet.
prickly but surprisingly sweet as a pear
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Practice makes perfect
Progress makes knaves
Cacti makes pear juice
Congress makes slaves
Panic makes errors
Pressure makes waves
Comfort makes cohorts
Cancer makes graves
Spirits of the woodland deep.
Gather, please, at gate.
Shadow, dark fire, through me seep!
Hummingbirds can hate!
Where the prickly pear was grown?
Deep beneath a lake.
Where the angry god was thrown?
Someone made mistake...
There to build, O pyramid!
Tumble down the step.
Deterrence means getting rid?
Soldiers, step with pep.
Stars above the forest?
From heaven, do ye swing?
Harpsichords, harpy, ne'er rest.
Sight-line, foe to sing.
Awkward position? Well, done.
Servants of the One.
Oracle, scion, vision.
Blink and it's begun...
Whiplash? Sword, deliver slash?
If you've got the cash!
Otherwise be-fevered bash.
Dessicate the dash...
Crater, thy rim. Tyrant, whim.
Abysm to swim.
O dark chasm, lights a-dim?
Except moment grim...
Old joke: How do porkypines mate? Very carefully.
The porcupine's a modest
And mostly solitary beast,
Akin to capybara and to beaver,
Though in size he is the least.
He rarely gets invited
To a bar-b-que or feast,
But long as he's not on the menu,
He doesn't mind it in the least.
He'll never write his memoirs,
Although of stories there's no lack,
But penmanship's beyond him,
He just doesn't have the knack.
And though he ports around a vast array
Of sharpened quills upon his back,
There's not one that's fit for writing
In all the clicking, clacking pack.
When "she" sends forth her pheromones,
And "he" rises to the bait,
Safe sex is uppermost in mind
As he advances to the plate.
His approach must be well-timed, precise,
Lest she shish-kabob her mate.
If it's not done right the first time…
There won't be a second date.
Pins and needles sewn across the bed
In threads of yellow-brown and rosy red
Stitched across my sheets, embroidered to my bed and pillow
Eye to eye with pins and needles, a prickly pair
Pinned to my bed and pillow, they lay bare
The prickly pair, they stare and glare
Their eyes, like needles, pierce the air
Embroidered to my bed and pillow,
They’re always there, a constant thrill-o
The needles, they whisper in the night
Their sharpness, a constant fright
The pins, they gleam in the moonlight
Their presence, a constant blight
The prickly pair, they never sleep
Their vigilance, a constant keep
Embroidered to my bed and pillow,
They’re always there, a constant billow.
He ain’t prickly, he’s my brother I said.
Full of quills though, right? Asked my neighbor Fred
Not awful, tolerable actually, cushy even,
This was thrown in by my best friend Steven.
You mean you ride on his back? A little one queried.
Yes I said, and I am not one bit worried.
He is young, so his quills are not intolerable yet.
I am not fearful at all, for these things I don’t fret.
Prickly Feet.
Along they scurried, with their prickly feet,
Across the grass, quick as a heartbeat,
Into a huddle, the pointed noses went,
For the meal, at her door, they assent.
Little grey noses, sniffing all around,
It was the dog's food, they had found.
To get there first, they did aspire,
Before Mr Fox came out of the mire!
Not many, of us left they thought,
But at this house, they had sought,
some kind food, through the winter,
It’s all they need, plus shelters of timber.
So a few days later back they came,
And now there were four at the door.
So the story ends on a happy note,
Conservation and hedgehogs get my vote.
Over, once lacey, denim skies
Prisms catch me
In the symmetry of your eye
The transcendental curve
Isn't going to let me hide
In these waves, so high
We couldn't stifle their collapse
Is there something left to grasp?
Because I'm ripping at the edges
Only sucking up the gaps
I need these loops
To follow through
But Mobius is grinning
And I'm just spinning
Flicking, spitting
Seeking, sick for something new
Or for ripening the brew
The dam stacking itself
Is in the corner of the room
Here I am
Right in front of you
With my cactus feet, clenching teeth
Under roses undisguised
Eyes that scream
Too easily see
All the disconnected lines
I will whisper here
'Till the ink is clear
In the synapse
Between yours and mine
8/4/'21
If anyone supposes
That life should be a bed of roses
How boring this would be
With no diversity
Roses have prickles the blossom exposes
The preacher preached a fiery sermon.
Words penetrating the soul like hot coals on fire.
Branding its burning mark of guilt across the hearts
Who seek after sinful desires.
That scratches the soul like prickly thorns and briars.
While Pleasure and temptation tormentingly conspire.
To lead you into the pit of fire.
I glimpsed a funny sight the other day;
A cactus with a mindset of its own,
Which seeking out a horizontal path
With comic singularity had grown.
The poet,with a self-reflective eye
Considered this quite unexpected course
At times she too had wandered from the path
And deviated from the true light source.
26.09.20
At my friend’s house over dinner
I emptied a pickle jar
My fickle buds relished infinitum
The tickle of sweet and sour
Didn’t suspect had a base of rum.
Soon the full moon appeared sickle
From forehead sweat dripped in trickle
It was fruitless to stickle
For beyond doubt I was pickled
I found prickly me in a pickle.
February 21, 2020
Tickly Prickly lying on her favorite branch
Can hear the large animals tromping through wet leaves
Does not concern her in the least
It is her autumn day nap, her autumn day nap
Tickly Prickly enjoying the sky,
On her back, looking toward God’s home
Can hear the songbirds trilling their truth
Smiles as she sees one, during her autumn day nap
Tickly Prickly’s eyes close gently.
She is dreaming of her favorite angel, Marabelle.
Wondering when she will be getting back to see her again.
Songbird swoops down. Tickly Prickly wakes up in Marabelle’s arms.
Clustered cactus trees sprawling, reclining in the summer heat
where agile pollinators dart among gorgeous silky blooms.
Day by day the prickly pear fruit swell and mature.
Already the mind conjures visions of red,
magenta, pink, yellow and white.
thriving on spring rain
deep-rooted fantasy
mellifluent desires
Experience has shown that the best time to pick prickly pears
is early morning before the sun’s rays become too hot.
A steady half turn with thumb and forefinger
gently releases the ripened fruit.
The bucket soon fills up.
dewy prickly pears
at break of day
impotent thorns
Rinsed under running water, the fruit waits to be disrobed.
Both ends of each fruit are cut off with a sharp knife,
followed by a long vertical slice along its body.
The thick skin is then peeled back, the
fleshy coloured fruit revealed.
prickly pears
in a glass bowl
naked temptation
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Contest: “Haibun”
Sponsor: Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer
©17th July, 2017
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