Haibun in 55 words!

A piece of white cloth I had bought, to paint on it, turned out to be a bigger project than I had anticipated. Now the shape on it hurts me no end. Blindly I seek you to ask where I placed it.

you were present here
what abyss propelled you in
shroud wraps around you

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Not all I write is a personal reflection. Please do bear that in mind while reading and commenting. Remember, poets/writers have very vivid imaginations and have the insight for empathy too. You will agree with that if you are either or both. However, many a times we forget the distinction and presume and assume.

doomed if I do, doomed if I don't

an adornment now- 
I sit on the side-table 
rueing my wick less days
I want the dark nights
with only me as a light

the blue you see
is a smudge on me
my yellow base
wants to catch fire
silently watching the wires

if you can't use me
why don't you break me
I would prefer to be buried
in earthy soil, 
water soothing my fire

"get a wick and let me get on with it"

colours lay bare my soul

I scribble on you
with pencil colours
blue is normal
orange heaves for me
red laughs at my passion
green just watches
the imminent moodiness
lines, and the ripples
create an illusion
of double rainbow
which engulf me
my fingers violate the violets
shrinking or otherwise
isn't that purple so deep
as to cause an yellowish tinge
on your pages-
you are a witness to all the hues
all the shades, that is I.

"my diary, with you I share all secrets, 
no colour tampers with my spirit"

the middle makes it

spurting juice 
I catch it in my mouth
an apple
reminds me of you-
the days we shared

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I talk into it
gibberish, incoherent
my mobile phone
gives me an earful
like the way you did

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

it wobbles
like an old man
this chair
I have had for years-
a landmark

`````````````````````````````````````````````
I brush it
a tapestry forms on it
that wall
a witness to my joys
smudges speak of sorrows

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I massage it
with gentle strokes
olive oil
on your skin
smooth as mine

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From AppleHouse Poetry Workshop

... of 5 lines where the middle line acts as a pivot, i.e. it can be read in conjunction with the first two lines, or it can be read as the line that leads into the final two.

a gift for you

I see it in flea market
wrap it in an old newspaper-
a snuff box-
denoting my snuffed out feelings,
send you whimsical note-
letting you know of tarnished hope
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Why don't you try something in 160 characters? Space included!
Update: I corrected it to flea but I think flee too worked well. What do you think?

powders of stones

Layer by layer, he chiselled the surface, hardened over time. Now time had no meaning, but for his work. Destruction, construction, it was not for him to decide. On his feet lay the debris, powdered monument, was it? Nothing made sense any more, only the task, burdened with overcast ripples of thumbed ocean.

only a chipped thought
flies away to the cerulian sky
sacred invasion

His skin had that sheen, although weathered. He was the monument, and its love, which none remembered. If memories had a tapestry, he would win hands down. But memories, for him,  were traps of fire, a quagmire, with no immediate escape.

swat flying creatures
they can't take you far away
you will die anyway

I close the chapter, with a snap, find my fingers breaking the spine. Horrified I observe the pages falling apart, just like the miniscule powders of stones, flying around him. Not bothered, he hammers the ground now. When the earth shakes, he laughs out loud, a sound I had forgotten. I like the crying earth, the bursting sky, awaiting for water to engulf me.

oceans are so hungry-
always swallow those stones
whole city underneath

Haibun: seedy deeds

A breathe I felt on my neck. A storm within my ear. It roared and slipped into nothing. I chased it to the moon. An invisible shadow. An antithesis of wasteland. I couldn't see it. But feel it, I did. What of it? The purple sky merged into orange and buttons of diamonds danced with glee.

Where had I come? And from where? From the inside of a book, I flew into it, that creature, which can't be scene. A friend, a foe? Flashes of light bursts all over the place. An acrid smell tastes so salty. My tongue burns it out. I turn towards that shadow, just barely visible. A giant bee stings me. I cry out. Chanting curses, I kill it with my voice. And find a golden winged fairy dead at my feet. Weighty issues to tackle now, I burn at the stakes.

seed pearls fall over
ground paves it into you
sky watches with detach

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don't know if I succeeded in writing a Haibun. But I am glad I tried, thanks to Big Tent Poetry.

remnants

in the remnants
I seek the aroma-
no, not yours.

into the skewed sky
it has wafted-
clouds are the witness.

I must get to it,
catch it, bottle it-
and throw it into a cavern

floorboards watch me,
each creak loud,
while I collect vacuum. 

baton of time

I wear my newly stitched wings,
pluck time from the sky
I nudge it towards you
you make a face as if it stinks

my shoulders itch so much
I change my gait
one of my wings slips off

the time I gave you
is melting so fast
my strength recedes along with it

when you see that
you solidify it again
ripen it and pass it back to me

my wings flutter
I fly away to my destiny
the sun might burn me
but it will also give me light

ode to un-punctuated verses

commas, apostrophes or full stops
I might like those in prose
but in your poetry or even mine
I seldom seek those

why grudge it then
if it gives me limitless choices
language always grows
despite dissenting voices

why let your heckles rise
and end up in a rant
there is always an option
why let ants in your pants?

if silence can be heard, 
why not un-punctuated verse
ever heard of poetic license
which certainly is no curse!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Why don't you write something for exceptions to the rule from We Write Poems?

my monkey reads you well

your hands in your pocket

that lopsided smile

your balled handkerchief in right pocket

coat all wrinkled

and jeans so dirty

my monkey reads you well

your feet so dirty

sweat stains on your shirt

your suitcase open

in the centre of the room

a banana on top of it

my monkey reads you well

on that bed

under the covers

sloppily you fall asleep

I scatter the pillows

my deed done so well

my monkey reads me well

it pushes me into the bathroom

under flowing water I wash it

it hands me a towel,

I wipe it clean

taking in back where it belongs

my monkey reads me well

no one would have believed

it was I who knifed him

if we had left the room

and gone on our way

but for my monkey who wanted to stay

"and why not, it was his monkey too"

something fishy

marinated fish
goes into that flat frying pan
oh, splattered bliss

bliss leaks from sides
releasing smells into my brain
making mouth water

but fish seek coke
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am following it from about fish, chips, nothing much else. Go check that out too!

Why not write a poem or a story in exactly 160 characters each Sunday? Spaces included! Head for Monkey Man for Sunday 160!

PS: No, I wasn't cooking the fish. It is all imagination.

about fish, chips and nothing else much

a whispers in its ear
trapped in that net
it tries to wriggle free
siblings lie low giving in to fate
awaiting impending death

tang of salty water
still on its lips
the world of water receded so fast
into the air
onto the ground
that net pounds

jump, jump
a whisper in its ear
with all the might it breaks free
again into that bottomless see
joie de vivre never afar
siblings too follow the lead

our fisherman is left high and dry
his dreams of chips and fish fry
have gone all awry

timeless flies search for fries

In the dock lies a half-eaten banana
thrown by that little child in an embellished skirt
a swarm of flies land on the debris
making it their temporary home
from afar the flies seem to chant prayers
maybe seeking answers for their early demise
I had assumed they had no backbone,
the evidence belies me, 
you can see the time trickling away to their tunes

what I see is a blank wall splattered with ketchup
from another half-eaten burger,
this time a grown up being the culprit.

"now the flies ask, where are the fries?"

warming up the worms

if my dreams get real bizarre
I will get up, pick the jar
into it the dreams would go
churned into bits of guts
I would take the jar into the woods
bury it deep in the soil
let worms encircle it

worms of volatile dreams inside
earthy worms on the outside
a beauteous sight for the twisted me
I fix a demure smile
pretend to slip on the tiles
my jar smashes on the floor
nightmares escape everywhere

it won't offend me at all, 
if you leave bits of glasses right there
as I love to watch footsteps of blood
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The first line is taken from the lyrics of you tube clip (fireflies – owl city)

a child's play

that yellow ball
orbits in air
drops perfectly in the ditch
a child dithers to catch it
his hands stick into mud
ghosts of dead children
haunt his neighborhood

nowhere island

the morning's moisture misted on his beard
while I watched from the sidewalks
the lake reflected the mountains
and I could see only him
his glasses perched on his head
he was immersed in silence
golden light of the sun
poured over him
showering him with warmth
I wished to catch it from him like a cold
when I came into his vision
he paused from his silence
his eyes took a catastrophic look
he slipped down his glasses
purposefully disappeared into the deep lanes

"no stranger to our gauzy history,
nor to our torrid chemistry, 
where can he escape from the paring memories?"

I watch while the mountains crumble

a piece of flotsam in the passing
why am I seeing it from afar
my hair plastered to my skull
salt sticks into me
that abrasive feeling does not leave
when did my feet get webbed
when did I sprout wings
the ocean sleeps in front of me
sky is running away
that flotsam is a piece of a mountain
the world is unusually calm
while I accept the gift of peace

"I wanted to be the last redwood, now I pirouette with the jinx"

crooked window

nay, I did not say that

not anything anyone need know

how did the whispers get heard

why did the wind spin a tale

plucking from the silky depths

you stand behind that window

your reflection looms large

I stare angrily at that

muttering under my breath

when did you steal my veil

soon your face will get blue,

turning you into an apostrophe

the frames will engulf you

I will keep counting the branches

while you cut out the slashes

"you a faceless entity, hiding behind the city"

commas in the pauses

this isn't really about me
this isn't really about you
this isn't not even about the two
what is this about, you might ask
I say, this is amalgamation
of I know not what

yes, you heard that right
I never asked you to feast here
or to ogle at the pauses
or the commas as some might say

I am not going to charm you
you keep away from the graphs
I never dangled the space
I presumed it to be robust
to hold under its own steam
your pigheadedness broke into it

"when the wings fall apart, you will exist not"

unmasked

you see me as someone serious

who is always buried in books

writes poetry at drop of a hat

you don't know me at all

I wait every night

buried in shadows

a mask

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Why not write a poem or a story in exactly 160 characters each Sunday? Spaces included! Head for Monkey Man for Sunday 160!

ode to shoes

Starting with this, I will write an ode to anything or everything I can think of. Of course I won't be able to get anywhere near Pablo Neruda's odes but I can try, can't I?

shoes

my red canvas shoes

white borders

red laces

white laces

which to choose

perfect fit

contrasts with white outfit

matches the red dresses

to the hilt

loves my toes

toes love it too

ankles like its warmth

rubber soles

kiss the roads

spiritually reverent

each day is a breakthrough

for those shoes

my red canvas shoes

"they touch the elements, revelations don't come amiss"

~~~~~~~

Update@ 09/05/2010, 10:43 AM: Added a photo!

*grin*

pavement musings

on that newly laid pavement

an unset tile tilted-

I found myself on ground

almost nose to nose with the cobbler

scent of used leather, shoe glue

touched my horizon

I saw lights filtering from tattered tarp

all other lights vanished

I took stock of my surroundings

my shoe broken now,

I offered it to him soundlessly

as he repaired it, he said,

"now you can walk to the end of the world"

pitching forward

I have taken a wordle from one that briarcat made from her own poems. Those words are different than what I normally use and I like that.

I can hear the hummingbirds

while I toss the salad

I expect the girls to arrive at any time

seasons have gone

predictable we weren't ever

what kind of celebrations I expect now

when I bolted out last time we met

yet I would like to make amends

to pitch forward like a rocket

I try to save the smoking sizzlers

wishing to break something

my glasses sit foolishly on my nose

wounds don't show on the surface

"in mathematics, two negatives do make a positive"