Today's poet

[Hes]

Glad you liked Kinder

Here is another I wrote, I was inspired by memorials high in the mountains, the continuity of life and that people have such a spiritual connection with mountains that they choose to have their ashes spread there.

The spreading of Ashes

Into the wind this dust will blow
to settle in storm gathered pools of water
that dwell behind rocks and grasses
and darken the fleece of lambs due for slaughter

And with that wind a soul will follow
to glide and look down on mountain peaks
and catch the wing of a passing swallow
living forever in the song from their beaks.

That is truly beautiful! I love the way you've captured the cycle of life and death and the idea that a soul might travel for a short time in a swallow...the swallow's song is one of my favourite sounds.

[Derby Tup]

cold swollen Wharfe
rolls inevitably on
under indigo sky

[Hes]

cold swollen Wharfe
rolls inevitably on
under indigo sky

Good to see you have regained your Yorkshire muse DT! This is great. Just cycled back in the rain and floods after dropping car off and felt inspired myself:

pecking in puddles
jackdaws spattering a field
of still sodden sheep

weary ewes look up
and black tatters fill the sky
as I cycle through

procrastination
enemy of this artist
threatens to conquer!

on that note...I'm back to work again and the ode to Altura will have to wait.

[Harry H Howgill]

High Street, Kidsty Pike
White dusting under pink sky
A fine winter's day

[Derby Tup]

Some great stuff this afternoon!

Did we get to bottom of Harry's middle name? I wondered about Horatio or Hornblower

[Harry H Howgill]

Some great stuff this afternoon!

Did we get to bottom of Harry's middle name? I wondered about Horatio or Hornblower

Nope. Keep going. Best one wins a prize.

[freckle]

hello all, some great stuff on here today i admire everyone's haiku...

here is one i like by anne sexton...there is an interesting story behind it....


She is all there.
She was melted carefully down for you
and cast up from your childhood,
cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.

She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February
and as real as a cast-iron pot.

Let’s face it, I have been momentary.
A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.
My hair rising like smoke from the car window.
Littleneck clams out of season.

She is more than that. She is your have to have,
has grown you your practical your tropical growth.
This is not an experiment. She is all harmony
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,

has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,
sat by the potter’s wheel at midday,
set forth three children under the moon,
three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,

done this with her legs spread out
in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there
like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.

She has also carried each one down the hall
after supper, their heads privately bent,
two legs protesting, person to person,
her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.

I give you back your heart.
I give you permission—

for the fuse inside her, throbbing
angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her
and the burying of her wound
for the burying of her small red wound alive

for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,
for the mother’s knee, for the stocking,
for the garter belt, for the call

the curious call
when you will burrow in arms and breasts
and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair
and answer the call, the curious call.

She is so naked and singular.
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.

As for me, I am watercolor.
I wash off.

- by Anne Sexton


http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/annesexton

[Harry H Howgill]

Good to see you have regained your Yorkshire muse DT! This is great. Just cycled back in the rain and floods after dropping car off and felt inspired myself:

pecking in puddles
jackdaws spattering a field
of still sodden sheep

weary ewes look up
and black tatters fill the sky
as I cycle through

procrastination
enemy of this artist
threatens to conquer!

on that note...I'm back to work again and the ode to Altura will have to wait.

I've only just twigged at the third time of reading about the Ode to Altura. I was thinking that was a bit high brow for me as I was sure that Altura was the Roman Goddess of summit or other. Then I realised that an ode to a pair of cycling shorts was right up my street. Can't wait to hear it Hes.

And don't forget. Procrastination IS an art!

[Hes]

Not a goddess HHH but a god!

Ode to Altura

You cling to my curves,
stretching with every movement,
wrapping my body like a lover,
protecting me from the elements.
All that came before you -
so dysfunctional.
They let me down when I needed them most,
but you...you are reliable, practical and robust,
without you I would be so cold, so miserable,
wet, heart racing rides denied to me,
but together we can weather any storm
and, as the heat rises within,
I swoop through puddles,
laughing like a child,
singing your praises
thankful for the day that I found you,
quietly waiting for me
in Chevin Cycle's summer sale.

Well...it is amazing the difference good cycling waterproofs can make to your ride!

[Hes]

hello all, some great stuff on here today i admire everyone's haiku...

here is one i like by anne sexton...there is an interesting story behind it....

http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/annesexton

Freckle, you really do have the knack of finding the most thought-provoking and amazing poetry. Yet another fascinating but tortured soul...it seems that an awful lot of the most creative women suffered mental anguish. I've always been fascinated by women artists such as Georgia O'Keefe and Frida Kahlo...so much strength but so much heartache.