Writing 201

Haikus about Water

The clouds break open.
The rain patters on and on;
the storm never ends.

The parched earth sighs as
gratitude fills the earth’s lungs.
Tiny droplets sing.

The liquid of life
colors our globe blue, sustains,
provides joy to everyone.


Cubicle Island

Time ticks by so slow,
but pretty soon no one will find me, search high or low.
For I will be on the beach, my toes digging into the sand
with a margarita or piña colada in hand.
Only eight hours to go.

I will be on an island, eating seafood,
in an exotic getaway where no one dare be rude.
I will continue my daydreams
until my boss, red in the face, screams.
I tell him to calm, no need to be crude.

I have eight hours to go, but I’m ready to flee.
Once on that trip, I’ll finally be free.
From plane to boat,where I’m going there’s no need for coat.
There will be plenty of time for me and to sight-see.

This day, will it ever end?
I have so much business with which I must attend.
I’m sick of this stupid place;
I’m tired of the rat race.
Maybe retirement’s right around the bend.


Trust Not, Want Not

The most selfless act you can perform
requires you to conform to these rules.
(Until I have you running circles like a fool.)
Stop my heart from breaking.
Tell the earth to stop its damn quaking.

(For the moment I surrendered my heart,
I’ll murmur, “love”, it’s the easiest part of this sorry affair.
I’ll set aside my fear just for a moment,
simply for the chance to hold you near.)


The Passion of the Apple (or The Snake’s Offer)

of seduction
if she says,
Take this fruit.
Eat of it.
Slam your body into his,
scream in passion.
Sex her innards,
seduce her raw.
Slivers of seduction.
Explore parts of your starving selves.
This is temptation, exploration, passion, seduction.

A Thin Fog

Her mind wilts–
a flower we forgot
to water.
It closes up, frail,
Her hands are lined
with veins:
maps with memories.

Her eyes cloud over;
the fog that veils them
makes her ask,
“Who are you?”
The fog that veils them
makes us ask,
“Why are you wearing
another woman’s pajamas?”

She closes her eyes when tired;
it doesn’t matter if she has a mouthful
of tuna.
She closes her eyes
because she is tired,
and the fog that veils her hazel eyes
tells her it is time to sleep.
(Even if she has a mouthful
of tuna.)

This fog she walks under never lifts.
We imagine lucidity and think
the haze was a mere illusion.
Then, we are dragged back to earth,
our hopes balloons we must keep tethered
when we are told,
“She’ll never get better.
The disease is progressing farther along.
You can hope for good days but expect bad days.”

Her eyes are veiled in fog, and she blinks
when we tell her we love her.
She asks, “Nurse, when is my family going to see me?”
She no longer recognizes me as granddaughter.
I am a stranger wearing a smile that fits all wrong
like a toupee that keeps sliding off because behind the smile
are the tears that want to fall, that I refuse to let fall.

The fog that veils her eyes is a shield, separating her from us,
it is a glass wall.  She can see out; we can see in, but we are separated
by the thin fog that veils her eyes.


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