Aug 2017 · 262
Haiku #5
Steady rain
soft bossa nova
in Rio.
Aug 2017 · 205
From A Neon Dream
I wandered off the sidewalk
the sidewalk downtown
though in which town I didn't know
I felt drunk.

I was drunk at sunset
the sunset was red
red like some of the neon downtown
I kept along the sidewalk
the sidewalk kissed the sunset
a goodbye kiss
an indifferent goodbye.

There was a bench under some neon
a welcome for the weary
I sat on the bench for an hour
maybe two hours
or even three
three hours of sitting
sitting and thinking
thinking about neon
neon and sunsets
and if there's such a thing as a hello kiss
I was sick thinking about goodbyes
goodbye kisses
and sunsets.

I closed my eyes to think of daytime
fantasy daytime
daytime when things keep moving
when it all moves without night
without the heavy blanket of night.

Behind my eyes were pictures
new pictures
pictures I hadn't seen before
fun times in faraway lands
fantasy pictures
fake photos.

I woke up in a movie theater
a small theater
a box for one
one who didn't mind a cell
at least for a while.

Magic movies played this time
though time didn't much matter
no boring pictures
no stillness
vivid movies instead
a little too vivid
vivid meaning colorful
****** colors
primitive colors
but with strokes of emotion.

There was meaning in that box
that box of a theater
the prison cell with pretty pictures
I was confined for a bit
but content for too long
long enough to imagine movies
personal movies
movies you see twice
but you wanted to never see
movies with a little too much truth.

I was still drunk in my box
too drunk to stay awake
too tired to want to move
to leave
to love.

The last movie was colorful
colors full of neon
neon lighting up a dance floor
a dance floor with drunk dancers
dancers without cares
cares or compassion
dancers with nothingness
nothing but new clothes
new jokes
jokes that are too personal
too personal for the clumsy dancers
the dancers asleep at the movies.

My last thought was black
black like the night
but not dark like the night
more silent than cold
a summer wind
calm but urgent
but also patient
black that smothered thought
smothered it all except for light
light that owes itself to emotion
not to celestials
or to dieties
but to mankind
to her and to him
to love.

I strolled out of the theater
and it was bright
it was morning
the morning after a long night
the longest night
a night so dark
blackest dark.

Everything was light now
Her hair was light too
the ******* the sidewalk
the sidewalk across the street.

We walked together
walked together for a good while
I finally saw She was real
not a pretty picture
not a neon dream
a real Girl
a Girl that was different
different in a familiar way
familiar meaning fateful
though I wasn't familiar with fate.

She was real
Her warmth was real
warm and caring
considerate of things
things about nature
and about family
things about nothing too
but also things about Me.

I don't worry about the night
the long night
the blackest night
She holds Me
holds Me gently
holds Me against Her
faced towards the sun
away from any night.

Her embrace isn't small
small like My old box
with My movies and pictures
She holds the world
holds all of everything
but also holds a place
a place for Me.

I live in love now
not under cheap neon
but in indomitable light
Her light.
It's okay not to be okay.  The world turns and our lives move forward.  When we inevitably escape the black moments of our lives, we are sometimes fortunate to stumble upon people who seem to reward our endurance.
Aug 2017 · 210
Haiku #4
Fragile ice
under northern lights
her green eyes
For my girlfriend.
Aug 2017 · 326
Haiku #3
Brooding busy boys
dewdrop grass in muddied dirt
bent-back summer day
Aug 2017 · 154
Haiku #2
The scent-hungry hound
Unthinkably finds what's lost
That's meant to be found
Aug 2017 · 133
Righteous Writers
I find comfort in reveries
written by men who barely breathe,
or by women who find power in paper
cast out because they lack political favor.

Stories by the wealthy and bored
fortunate but ****** enough to find life a chore,
the pensive folk who peer and pry
**** our thoughts into newfound high.

We guess that they have measured motive
to gorge on fame until they're bloated,
or make their mark on mortal minds
in desperate ploys to outlast time.

Some riddled and ruined by reality
who write to quell not critics but poverty,
knowing that genius might swim in scribbles
that earn a few pennies little by little.

All cut from the same curious cloth
willing to lay ***** every thought,
for everyone and no one to see and savor
but for at least a single soul to find some flavor.

*** forget the queen and save these paupers
the indifferent financiers of mind's coffers,
the absent yet ever-present teachers
the ones who give new breath to life's creatures.

And every ****** or rosy rhyme
owes its rhythm to well-spent time,
of imperfect souls and fearless fighters
the poets, the storytellers, the righteous writers.
Thank you to every person who spreads literacy through thoughtful writing, poetry, or storytelling.  You're doing the world an amazing service.
Jul 2017 · 221
Summer Fields
Summer fields
Awake and moving
My first attempt at haiku, though I chose the less-prolific 3-5-3 style.
Aug 2015 · 263
One, Two, Three
Heart attack,
Lungs collapse,
Stomach sinks,
Forget to think.

Who are you,
What to do,
Try to run,
Legs are numb.

Never holding on,
Getting pulled along,
Wishing it was you,
Something strange and new.

But with so much certainty,
A little doubt there will not be,
I say it's a lie and yet I see,
The weights and the burden, the irony,

It's me, but breathe.

One, two, three.

— The End —