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Haibun
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Last night’s slumber found me in an evening, cloud forest;
a plethora of mosses covered the ground and I found myself walking on a palette of green hues as night’s curtain fell. Humidity clammed my skin with its touch; free body lotion. It feels like I’ve just stepped out of the shower, refreshed. In a water forest you cannot always hear what is behind you; I felt that familiar piercing of eyes when, someone or something is watching and turned to see an Olingo on a tree branch. He was beautiful and as our eyes locked, he stood frozen. I called him friend then thought about it again. I then told him not to befriend others of my kind; they would want to harm him. Strange, his high-pitched, voice in my head; “Thank you, you will be my one human friend; you are welcome here”. He turned, ran into the cloudy haze. My heart levitated from my chest with elation; I may have saved him and his friends from poachers.
In a cloud forest
varied species living life
majesty surrounds all.
Olingo, A small nocturnal mammal found in Central and South American areas. They resemble a Kinkajou only with a banded and non-prehensile tail.
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Prose Poetry
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As if a child should understand an adult’s muddle,
putrid oil slick puddle,
the dreadful pain we foist on wide-eyed offspring.
Robotic elders crush with rigid slabs of Portland censure,
whatever spark remains in tiny rosebud coloured cheeks,
before their prime.
Those innocents should never have to wrap,
their nascent minds around the wanton desecration,
of intertidal lakeland wetness gradients,
the callous douse of velvet purple algerita berries,
blighted by the stark timbre cloud forms
that recklessly pour bile on every genus.
The rug rats at our feet may never know,
the joys of sap-addicted sugar gliding nocturnal possums,
whose acrobatic tree to tree mirror ball exploits,
mock Isaac Newton’s legacy,
that kinkajou of tail grip fame who flaunt,
their tan glow wooly fur coat in broad daylight,
or dawn to dusk fennec fox, a doughty eagle owl and jackal dodger, whose kissing cousin dens pockmark terracotta forests.
A heartless milieu asks our clutch and clan to dwell in.
alloy girder mousetraps, pale decor rat infested tumble downs,
gouged out by scrimp and scrape rust bucket caterpillars.
Beyond belief we tolerate the nick and hoist pressure cooker elevator,
that transit flight abduction of the harried wage slave parent,
those cotton garment dress code senseless,
dragonfly stand-ins that hover in mid air.
Future bands of mutant stem cell rockers,
are duty bound to sculpture rimshots meshed in suckling chimes,
when validating rawhide rattle chainsaw fret board anthems,
at crowd mosher mud fests,
where rivers of apocalyptic visions burst the bank.
If only grown ups listened to that inner vocal quiver, that we
may not yet have cast into plastic resin folly,
for the generations weaned in toxic smoke rooms,
we’d pollinate a luscious fairground acorn dotted garden,
with childhood zest its one and only buzzword.
A sweet treat gift with natural flavour pending,
eternal life support for baby planet daisy chains,
of tender petal linkage,
who‘d finally experience pure clutter free environments.
Date posted ; 18/8/22
Contest ; 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 12' Poetry Contest
Sponsor ; Mark Toney
This poem has 27 lines
Line number confirmed by Poetry Soup grammar check and MiniWebtool line counter.
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