You can't rush haiku. It takes weeks to get them perfect! I'm planning an Easter one already!Originally Posted by Derby Tup
Thanks Mossy. It's taken several weeks to finish what's turned out to be ten words
You can't rush haiku. It takes weeks to get them perfect! I'm planning an Easter one already!Thanks Mossy. It's taken several weeks to finish what's turned out to be ten words
The Having to Love Something Else
There was a man who would marry his mother, and asked his
father for his mother's hand in marriage, and was told he could
not marry his mother's hand because it was attached to all
the rest of mother, which was all married to his father; that
he'd have to love something else....
And so he went into the world to love something else, and
fell in love with a dining room.
He asked someone standing there, may I have this dining
room's hand in marriage?
You may not, its hand is attached to all the rest of it,
which has all been promised to me in connubial alliance, said
someone standing there.
Just because the dining room lives in your house doesn't
necessarily give you claim to its affections....
Yes it does, for a dining room is always to be married to
the heir apparent in the line of succession; after father it's
my turn; and only if all mankind were destroyed could you
succeed any other to the hand of this dining room. You'll have
to love something else....
And so the man who would marry his mother was again in the
world looking for something to love that was not already
loved...
-- Russell Edson
Am Yisrael Chai
Bless him, the things they come out with
The Word of an Engineer
- "SHE'S built of steel
- From deck to keel,
- And bolted strong and tight;
- In scorn she'll sail
- The fiercest gale,
- And pierce the darkest night.
"The builder's art- Has proved each part
- Throughout her breadth and length;
- Deep in the hulk,
- Of her mighty bulk,
- Ten thousand Titans' strength."
The tempest howls,- The Ice Wolf prowls,
- The winds they shift and veer,
- But calm I sleep,
- And faith I keep
- In the word of an engineer.
Along the trail- Of the slender rail
- The train, like a nightmare, flies
- And dashes on
- Through the black-mouthed yawn
- Where the cavernous tunnel lies.
Over the ridge,- Across the bridge,
- Swung twixt the sky and hell,
- On an iron thread
- Spun from the head
- Of the man in a draughtsman's cell.
And so we ride- Over land and tide,
- Without a thought of fear--
- Man never had
The faith in God
That he has in an engineer!
James Weldon Johnson
Seasonally a bit late...or perhaps too early...
ERRANT AUTUMN
BY A.D. GASPARD
She was supposed to be green
forever,
but shook her head,
turning richly brown
as earth under the rain.
They scheduled time for a youthful blush;
she blended into vivid garnet hues.
She is Errant Autumn,
changing into every color
they never expected,
never wanted.
Flowing like warm ink under skin,
there are too many curves
and golden veins of her own selection
to make everyone else happy.
So she falls,
fluttering down
under all the wrong trees,
but keeps the brightest leaves
on upper branches,
vivid at the edges of her mind.
Errant Autumn
has a patch the color of witch's blood,
pumpkins of a strange mother,
spilling tartly orange from the center
(or simply meshing with the sweet potatoes,
skin milky and white).
She takes this time for herself
to breathe in with satisfaction
the same chilled air
that makes anothers lungs hurt and nose run,
lighting a bonfire to burn
bright in the night
and absorbing into her hair,
so she is the scent
of her own season.
Am Yisrael Chai
Eeeee, who cares about the season? A good poem is good any time of year, and I like that one.
Seasonally a bit late...or perhaps too early...
ERRANT AUTUMN
BY A.D. GASPARD
She was supposed to be green
forever,
but shook her head,
turning richly brown
as earth under the rain.
They scheduled time for a youthful blush;
she blended into vivid garnet hues.
She is Errant Autumn,
changing into every color
they never expected,
never wanted.
Flowing like warm ink under skin,
there are too many curves
and golden veins of her own selection
to make everyone else happy.
So she falls,
fluttering down
under all the wrong trees,
but keeps the brightest leaves
on upper branches,
vivid at the edges of her mind.
Errant Autumn
has a patch the color of witch's blood,
pumpkins of a strange mother,
spilling tartly orange from the center
(or simply meshing with the sweet potatoes,
skin milky and white).
She takes this time for herself
to breathe in with satisfaction
the same chilled air
that makes anothers lungs hurt and nose run,
lighting a bonfire to burn
bright in the night
and absorbing into her hair,
so she is the scent
of her own season.
I'm doing the perfect FPS exercises tonight. Alternating posts with core stability.
Core stability
Count breaths rather than seconds
There are less of them
I Hear the Stars Still Singing
I HEAR the stars still singing
To the beautiful, silent night,
As they speed with noiseless winging
Their ever westward flight.
I hear the waves still falling
On the stretch of lonely shore,
But the sound of a sweet voice calling
I shall hear, alas! no more.
James Weldon Johnson
Tee hee - knowing your previosuly expressed views on religion HHH, I think that one is 'choice' well done
Am Yisrael Chai
Morning, Noon and Night
WHEN morning shows her first faint flush,
I think of the tender blush
That crept so gently to your cheek
When first my love I dared to speak;
How, in your glance, a dawning ray
Gave promise of love's perfect day.
When, in the ardent breath of noon,The roses with passion swoon;
There steals upon me from the air
The scent that lurked within your hair;
I touch your hand, I clasp your form--
Again your lips are close and warm.
When comes the night with beauteous skies,I think of your tear-dimmed eyes,
Their mute entreaty that I stay,
Although your lips sent me away;
And then falls memory's bitter blight,
And dark--so dark becomes the night.
James Weldon Johnson
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