My haiku pond sits
in the corner of my garden~
small as a teacup,
deep as a breath.
Frogs sit like syllables
on lily pad commas,
punctuating the stillness
with soft green thoughts.
Dragonflies skim the surface,
writing bright, brief lines
in their iridescent ink~
three beats, then gone.
Even the reeds whisper
in measured cadence,
counting their own shadows
as the wind turns the page.
What’s in it?
Only what belongs in brevity~
a ripple, a pause,
a moment that refuses to hurry.
Why?
Because every pond
needs a place
where the world grows quiet enough
to speak in seventeen heartbeats.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’m like a teapot—short and stout—at dawn,
contentedly sleeping in the kitchen's first light.
By noon, I’m a question mark curled on your lawn,
punctuating the grass with snores.
Sometimes, I’m a baguette, crusty and long,
stretched across the couch in a sunbeam.
Other days, I’m a slipper with eyes that follow along
as you tiptoe past the doggie treat jar.
I have been a caterpillar, a comma,
a parenthesis nuzzling your ankle.
Occasionally, I was your boomerang, mama,
who returned to you with leaves in my fur.
But always, always, beneath my shifting silhouette,
I remain your loving Doxie, Fritz,
who sighs when you scratch my belly
even when I don’t have an itch.
the related memoir vignette can be read at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/runt_of_the_litter_13668
Play on jubilant tambourine.
Your silvery zills quaking,
quicken rockstones from such slumbers.
Shake, zealous with the spirit,
punctuating hallelujah,
ringing fresh as a new year.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The pond froze so suddenly that a duck mid-quack
found its bill glued shut, an absurd ice sculpture.
Mrs. Harlow’s terrier, mid-leap, hung suspended in the air
like a fuzzy comma, punctuating nothing.
The streetlamps blinked, then hardened into amber icicles—
even the wind gave up, curling into itself for warmth.
Old Man Greeley, halfway through shaking his fist at a squirrel,
became a monument to irritation, his mittens stiff with frost.
The children, though, were the first to notice:
they pressed their tongues to the icy slide at the park
stealing the cold for themselves.
He had become as his words
Used in times of desperation
The last one called upon
A weak fill in for thought
Muttered in an unforced silence
Incorrectly punctuating
A lost moment of life
Double-dutch ropes slap the sidewalk -
snap - snap - snap -
braids whip air,
girls jump in, counting
uno, dos, three,
feet flick like drumsticks.
The ice cream truck jingles off-key,
icy lady shakes paper cups,
piragua man shaves ice into snow -
his knife scraping the block awake.
Pastelillos pop in hot oil -
spit, sizzle -
plastic cups clink with rum and cola,
congas crack, maracas shake salt in the air,
horns blare like chisme in heat.
Heels click-clack over concrete -
punctuating each spin,
each swirl of hips.
Whistles split the air -
one from the lifeguard at Jefferson,
two from the men on the corner,
three from abuela
when the coals are hot.
Somebody throws meat on the grill -
ssszzzz -
smoke climbs windows,
neighbors bring foil trays -
yellow rice, ribs, roasted corn -
each dish a downbeat.
Kids yell cannonball,
water smacks back,
lifeguard’s whistle cuts through splash.
Old heads tap dominoes on tabletops -
crack, slap, smack -
hands older than the stoops they sit on.
The block fills itself
the way music fills a drum -
the street hums under bare feet.
Tonight,
the moon will smell like charcoal
and sweet ice.
God made everything out of nothing
but the nothingness shows through.
Paul Valery
Only silence wells
in the dark throat of the evening
and anything you hear
is of the world's making
or your own mind
filling up the empty spaces.
Music is made this way
and poetry, as they try
to give substance and form
to what is missing,
to fill that gnawing void
with a note or word.
Works fluoresce
as exotic creatures do
in the dark of deep seas,
small, faint flickers
punctuating the unknowable
with momentary life.
And so it is,
we are drawn towards
a centre that seems everywhere,
a nothingness rolled
into a ball, the circumference
of the infinite that resides
within us all.
the s p a c e between us,
is lined with full stops
and wistful questions~
tucked within "inverted commas"
of w e e p i n g stars,
but I'm lost in
suffocating s i l e n c e...
t h i n k i n g
l o n g i n g
d r e a m i n g...
as Y o u, my beloved
are enough...the poetic pause
breathing between
stellar heartbeats
of the mourning sky~
punctuating promises
mirroring the magnetic
equations of l o v e ~
a cosmic pyramid
glazed with pearl-dust
as herbs of henna
soothe this soul
swollen with g r a t i t u d e
sipping midnight mocktails
like a dressed devotee
worshipping the aura of roses
within serene scriptures ...
I breathe the beauty of quietude:
Solitary walks in parks or woods,
Foliage brushing against one’s feet,
Early morning sunshine through the trees,
With bird calls punctuating the hush.
I breathe the beauty of quietude,
Of cloudless skies and placid waters,
Of soft breeze blowing against one’s face
Or whipping perfumes among the flow’rs
Gently enough to not let them fall.
I breathe the beauty of quietude,
Of twilight steering the close of day,
Of the stillness about to descend,
The tranquility that the night brings--
Much needed rest for the weary soul.
I breathe the beauty of quietude:
The privacy that can be enjoyed
While in the company of one’s thoughts,
Unmoved by the world’s many demands
To commune with oneself just for once.
Among 3rd Place
I Breathe Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Ink Empress
He stepped forward
-Invisible
Slowly dissipated in rhythm with word
She looked around
Searching for a plausible cause
An overly pronounced Ahh
punctuating his appearance
A wry smile trundled across his lips
-there is power in words
and I am Float
and you are Epitome
Someone has stolen a word
and we need you to find it
The only problem no one knows what it is….
Why float, a look of question frowning on her face
I created it-he replied it’s actually my first one
He carried on
We have three days
By that time you need to choose
Choose.choose what, she asked
The words you need on your quest
Courage has volunteered
We can’t find fear
and Whimsy is chasing a butterfly in a field
I hear the stories
I read them too
about calm, tranquil deaths
as heavenward angels take their last breaths…
‘She entered the next world
surrounded by her nearest and dearest
holding hands with her beloved husband of 57 years
a smile of serenity overspreading her face…’
Aaaaargh! Not for me! I shall not go willingly
I vow to fight to stay alive until my last hurrah
Punctuating the air with oaths and imprecations
~ Hanging on for my final grasp of this earthly station
and then the accused fell foul
of yet another condemnation
without trial
the sentence spoken in anger
shards of bloody mosaic
stick to his bare feet
from where she threw
the glass on the tiled floor
punctuating
compartmentalizing
puncturing an unspoken truth
superficial wounds already closing
he wraps a bandage around his heart
squeezes tightly to feel alive
accepts the verdict
though no crime was committed
a scar remains from
what should have been
a beautiful night
and the rope tears into his hands
07th June 2023
“Be happy in the moment that's enough. Each moment is all we need.”
Quote _ Mother Teresa
As time brings glee days,
As we sojourn on bloom ways,
Let’s treasure the clime,
For it's a fleeting sublime.
Life is a stage of variant entities,
They come in subtleties,
It’s a walk across meadows,
Nightfall brings the shadows.
Happiness is a choice,
A punctuating voice,
A light that can be reflected,
As gloom can be deflected.
Like a child on a swing,
Away from life's other wing,
We can walk oblivious of gloom,
Permuting our desired room.
May 24, 2023.
Writing Challenge - B Quotes - Poetry Contest,
Constance La France.
How does one define
great poetry? The best
rhyme in time? A musical
phrase that stays, reverberates
within the catacombs of a Devotee's
celestial sign, lubricating his every thought
as a priest's wine, sipping while he prays,
saturating his blood with the effervescence
of an all loving, redeeming deity; who knows
well His creation's need for affirmation, the urge
to write; so invented He, neat words in sympathy
to both inspire and delight –
Or is great poetry
more antithetical?~ no conscious effort
to unseal, for never prescriptively hermetical –
a sacrilege if sanitized like something
contrived for medically medical; enters the lull
like a masked virus in the night, awakening soundly
sleeping hands to their inherent flight~ a light
clicked on to feverishly, tappingly, divinely compose;
such all powerful driving might, pouring
out of every orifice I suppose: from one's mind,
eyes, lips, punctuating backside and
imperfect often grossly ventilating nose....
Miles racing underneath lively conversation
Whistling road noises and occasional bumps,
Time passing slowly to our expected destination
As concrete expansion joints create thumps.
Whistling road noises and occasional bumps
Punctuating rhythmic sounds from the stereo,
As concrete expansion joints create thumps
Sense of contentment and pleasantry is apropos.
Punctuating rhythmic sounds from the stereo,
Cool breezes flow from open dashboard vents
Sense of contentment and pleasantry is apropos,
We are enjoying filtered outdoor autumn scents.
Cool breezes flow from open dashboard vents
Moderating the humidity of September heat
We are enjoying filtered outdoor autumn scents
A highly-anticipated road trip is totally upbeat.
Moderating the humidity of September heat
Time passing slowly to our expected destination
A highly-anticipated road trip is totally upbeat
Miles racing underneath lively conversation.
Written September 19, 2022
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