NaHaWriMo 2018 Bids Adieu

Alas, we come to the end. February, along with National Haiku Writing Month 2018, bid adieu. A parting kiss, a tip of the hat, and a thanks to all.

* * *

Day 22

Just five syllables

away from finding five more

to finally fin…


Day 23

The first winter snows

fall late in February

to a Springing earth.


Day 24

Go ahead and pull

the trigger of your lover.

She is still hungry.


Day 25

Lacerated flesh

smells of burning horizons.

All in a day’s work.


Day 26

Souls, in hollow steel.

An industry of madness

makes tiny men rich.


Day 27

It seems we eschew

the pulchritude of gladness

for want of power.


Day 28

Today, I shot kids.

Thanks be to God that I can

live where I am free.


NaHaWriMo 2018, part 3

Day 17

I cannot say why

the page seems a mystery

to a breath of ink.


Day 18

If there is but one

desire, given to all men,

could it not be love?


Day 19

A rotund excuse

it takes to suffer one’s pride

for want of one’s rights.


Day 20

A curious thing

this stand of winter flowers,

blooming out of rhyme.


Day 21

When the clock stood still,

two arms aimed at journey’s end

couldn’t stand the strain.

More NaHaWriMo 2018

More Haiku, or my attempt at the same, for National Haiku Writing Month, 2018!


Day 10

Kelly Belmonte,

thanks for the haiku advice.

It’s been most helpful!


Day 11

Watch the sky, squinting

against her lonely brilliance –

pants dying winter.


Day 12

I never could have

foreseen today unfolding

quite the way it did.


Day 13

“It’s only ten bucks,”

he said, through unseeing eyes.

“Why not get a job?”


Day 14 (Ash Wednesday)

One swipe of a thumb,

marking our humanity.

Momento mori.


Day 15

Let’s shoot our children.

And before their blood is dry,

we’ll do it again.


Day 16

Dark and deep the ground

that suffocates our children

and steals our future.

NaHaWriMo, 2018

A friend and fellow poet, Kelly Belmonte, whose blog I follow hungrily, alerted me to the fact that February is National Haiku Writing Month.

I’m not as adept at small form poetry as Kelly and others. Nevertheless, it is the perfect form to perfect form. An excellent poetry muscle-building exercise if ever there was one! So, always up for a challenge (more honestly, something to get me out of writer’s lethargy!), I here submit my pieces for the month so far.

Day 1

Five, seven, and five.

The perfect form for Haiku.

That’s okay by me.


Day 2

What if I were dead?

Would my one life have mattered?

What if I’m alive?


Day 3

Stuttered in pages –

life inside remembrances,

howls a paper wind.


Day 4

Then, I was angry

at ev’rything that rippled

and moved at random.


Day 5

I can see rumpled

corners around each morning –

darkness escaping.


Day 6

One can flee from death

to find herself, looking back

at what might have been.


Day 7

Regret is wasted

on a past, already gone.

There is only now.


Day 8

Why do we always

relinquish our sovereignty

over a trifle?


Day 9

Who can know the hour

when a dream meets its demise?

Dreams can sleep in hope.

Somewhere there lies, loitering


Somewhere there lies, loitering 

in the distance between pen and page,

the anxiety between knife and cut,

the pause between note and

note – the death between enemies, lives

the untested, a life yet

to be conjugated

into constituents, a partial

whole of whole parts.


Maybe in all our persistence,



our stolen inevitabilities,

we trade the certain for the sure,

the palette for the lecture.

Does not heaven bear the pernicious blockade?

The bee’s tongue waits to pollenate 

what soon will sweeten the starving

earth, and every smiling charlatan

a saint in the making.


Winnowing out from among the what ifs,

here-to-fors of judgements made before

the trial, the touch before the love,

is a shimmering reverie,

song of those who cannot sing.

It is the best song.

The churning stomach taut with

unrehearsed laughter.

It is the best joke.

The blanching eye, met full on

with the heavier beauty.

It is the wildest good. 


Somewhere there lies, loitering –

let it.


Photo courtesy of Pexels 

On New Year’s Day

Photographer: Zdeno Ceman

Look high up into the silent ubiquity of stars

and think. A razor’s-edge sky no more,

now, just lucid memory – the skinn’d-knee’d part

of the year, draughting, droughting, doffing

her news like the chevrier’s cap

to tip toward fresher dawns.

They spread themselves

out like white currents in black jam – a deft, 

thick parade of something always bigger than

it’s last time. Daylight, tapped out, 

waits for instructions.


Who’s news wrote herself of such worthy

stock as to preen in lace-ribbon’d journals,

the fare of hired kings, hourly queens?

Let the moated whims of the fanciful

remind you of marshmallow mouths,

full-brandied, shuffling through 

the shared coastlines of care.

Look far to the dual horizons of east from west,

wrong from pragmatic, and shudder full-wing’d

in the concentrated machinery of memory. 

Is this a constancy of preparedness? 

A repetition of verses, repeated, repeated again –

enough to repeal your doubts and reassign

them elsewhere?


Lean forward looking back, standing full upright.

Tell us what you would feign otherwise to see.



The Price of Home

Published at innerwoven, given the literary nature of this one…


I’ve been stung. Poisoned. Nothing flora or fauna. By a book. The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. It’s got me thinking again about our notions of ‘home.’

Poisonwood Bible.jpgTuesday, December 26th. Boxing Day. It’s strange, just saying those words can produce such intense homesickness. A progressive, Canadian family living in a regressive, Trumpian America. Similarly, Nathan and Orleanda Price and their children, Rachael, Leah, Adah, and Ruth May – in equal measure, a family displaced; a little collective of courage and fear, lived in a world of nothing but frontier. Their only certainties were the uncertainties of daily survival in a world that cared little either way.

Their meager, not even daily, meals of eggs or mash, perhaps some chicken if someone took pity on them, removed any vestiges of the stolen or manufactured expectations as whites in a black world. They were equals among those who typically served their every…

View original post 797 more words