Last night I couldn't
sleep a wink at all
for
the sound of thunder
like the Gods' bowling ball
rolling on a hardwood floor
resounding on the airs
doing a number on my slumber
in the room upstairs
but
in the serenity of silence
I'll switch off the light
catch a nap
and if it's quiet tonight
hopefully
between moonbeams
be
carried away on dreams sweet dreams
The glasses are empty the wine has been drunk
A table left untidied, with plates undone
The young shoots are patterning the apple trunk
Life appears for the favour of young
The old branches cut and piled on the ground
The old shades now vanished away
The TV controls wait somewhere to be found
Time stands still as if on delay
I hear your voice, feel it shifts through the air
The breeze of this morning flies by
You say I can’t see you here, are you upstairs?
I probably am, I reply…
We watched from the upstairs window
when we retreated from Dad’s bellicose anger,
that family next-door laughed and played
as if they had nothing to fear from adults
who put on a happy face when out and about
but dissolved into dark shadows at home,
dark shadows that whispered evil things
and shouted when you tried to explain
there was school work needed done,
and please don’t leave a bruise the teachers can see.
I gazed at one doll and one pillow in an abandoned house. A wall was charred. How many more dolls did these walls contain? How many memories? How many lives? I was standing at the intersection as traffic following a pilot vehicle streamed past. Soil was torn, new lines to houses installed, and soil was replaced. All in a day’s work. An assignment, after all. But I couldn’t help but embrace images of a family who lived there. In absence of facts, a story created lingered in the air.
on a cold day
a curtain unfurled
flapped to the wind
Written For A Cleaver Intriguing Haibun Contest
My building has ten stories,
Sixteen homes on every floor,
And most of them have strangers
Who reside behind each door.
My ninth floor neighbors smile and we
May chat while waiting for
An elevator to arrive;
We have a nice rapport.
Yet I have no true friendships
Where I live, but on that score,
That’s very common in New York,
Both for the rich and poor.
Some tenants have their little quirks
I try hard to ignore,
Though nothing really serious
I haven’t seen before.
My upstairs neighbors may exceed
What tolerance I store
Within my hands-off self
And make me just a little sore.
For noises that I can’t explain
And hammering galore
Disturb the peace I once enjoyed
And don’t have anymore.
Of course, it’s New York City,
Which has clamor at its core,
But I wish my upstairs neighbors
Lived on any other floor.
It is in the hottest month of April, The hot sun is disappearing slowly, Suddenly the sky is covered by clouds,
Mother is rushing towards the upstairs,
Tasty sago fryums are drying there, The south -west monsoon wind blows swiftly, Hot summer thunder is roaring loudly, Bright lightning is plucking the eyes, The cattle are running towards the sheds , Birds are taking asylum at the trees, A dust storm is circling the narrow streets, The nearby transformer bursts noisily, The entire domain is in dense darkness, No wonder,it's the sign of summer rain.
our angel who sleeps so peacefully there
the foundation that supports all our lives
no momma' didn't die; she moved upstairs
hands that can play Amazing Grace with flair
a melody that will lift and suprise
our angel who sleeps so peacefully there
she bakes her cakes with a dollop of air
not to mention those sweet potato pies
no momma' didn't die; she moved upstairs
there is this look, I guess you could say stare
she will give when dissecting truth from lies
our angel who sleeps so peacefully there
take nothing from her, but ask and she'll share
faith in God rests behind Midwestern eyes
no momma' didn't die; she moved upstairs
her framed picture holds a lock of brown hair
and seems to speak to us her words so wise
our angel who sleeps so peacefully there
no momma' didn't die; she moved upstairs
The snowflakes falling
A wind is blowing
It is a blizzard
Hard to walk or drive
Parking lots full of snow
Hard to park a car
Walking in deep snow
Stairs filled with snow
Difficult to walk up
Or down stairs
Steps need to be cleared
After the blizzard storm
The very old lady upstairs
Keeps dropping things on the old wooden floor
I keep waiting for the big old thud
Try leave behind "Book Of The Week"
And head upstairs where floorboards creak.
Where people tilt their heads to look
At every spine on every book.
Where murderers and secret lovers
Plot and scheme between the covers.
Where transport from another age
Transports you to another page.
Where old detective books reside
Each with their price pencilled inside.
Where books based on geometry
Share space with trigonometry.
Where childhood annuals stand in line
With memories of a simpler time.
Where silent thoughts pervade the air
And words speak volumes everywhere.
neighbor upstairs / elderly / maybe schizophrenic /
lead footed / restless / every day / rearranges furniture /
vacuums carpets / nails picture frames / drops pots and
pans / rolls concrete marbles across the floor / slams
cabinets / blasts 60’s music / interrupts my solace / grit
my teeth till flat / I complain / others complain / promises
lamb quietness / fails / owns monkeys? / petting zoo? / she
speaks / voice aroma of suicide / leave her be / won me over /
explains why the ugliest spiders spin the prettiest webs.
Dinosaur Upstairs
I used to know a Dinosaur,
Who lived on the second floor.
Not too sure what kind he was,
As I’d never seen one before.
It did get a little bit noisy,
Him being just upstairs,
Especially on his birthday,
When he played musical chairs.
'Pon thy throne
He sits in wait
"Son"
He says
"In time, he finds his way"
Then smiles as He clears the path
that leads back home
my streetlight darkness
with cold beverage in hand
and my mind's eyes closed
after rejection,
i make chicken
dirty rice and
call it a day
during the
downtime, i
make swedish
meatballs with
parmesan cheese
and hang up my
stresses in the
walk-
in closet
with the center of
a welcome peace, i
pour myself some
green tea ginger ale
in a thirty-two
ounce
cup and listen to
michael
franks
when i listen to the
song
about michael's baby
cooking
her eggplant, i
realize that i
forgot
to make some honey
butter biscuits
twelve minutes
later, when the
timer
goes off and the
honey butter
biscuits
are ready, mr.
franks is singing
about a
lady who wants to
know the reason why
i say to myself,
'later for curiosity
and the
cat....well, maybe
not the cat....that
may
be dessert
later....in the
meantime, i
pleasure myself on
one of the very
things
that i work my butt
off for....and just
unwind
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