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I watch you rise
out of the foggy banks
of Lake Michigan;
I can see the love
running right
out of you.

It's late winter now,
and the sun isn't shining,
but soon...  

You returned the diamonds;
they weren't precious
at all,
just shards of glass,

This is me at 11.
Scared.
Alone.

The ice is breaking.
I caught a fish yesterday...
Well, almost;
she slipped through my hands.

This is me at 34.
I can still see that boy
or...
at least the idea of him
he's hidden in the fog.
Arisa Mar 3
Mist may hide mountains,
But nothing covers my smile
When my eyes grasp you.
An old haiku made while waiting for my date.
Eleanor Feb 21
water droplets hanging
suspended on foggy glass
obscuring my vision
of a gray, hazy world
a dark eternity
why do I strain
to see out;
to the bleak
the hopeless
still
I wipe the glass clean
and with seeing
forlorn I close my eyes
LWZ Feb 20
Close,
But I can only see from a distance.
A thick dense fog stands in between,
I ******* wish to god I could see.

It’s so beautiful over there,
Somewhere I cannot define.
The air is fresh
The grass is green
Paradise, as If I was in a dream.

I walk through a war to get there.
A ******, butchered scene.
Still it feels like home,
And I find it hard to leave


I thrive in the mayhem
but it does not benefit me
Set me free of my memories
I want to stay where the grass is green.
Jackie Mead Feb 14
As I was walking along the bank of the Canal, fog covering the ground like a cloak
I thought I heard the jolly sound of a Frog croak
The Canal usually bright blue of colour
Was an unusually dark eerie, discolour.
I carried on walking towards St David’s Station, my destination
Whilst composing a Poem with my imagination
In front, I could not see more than 10feet ahead
But I swear a saw the wings of an albatross, overhead.

To the left as I walked, green open fields
I suddenly heard the sound of a Swan squeal
To my right, the Canal cast a dark and dreary backdrop
The banks of the Canal usually lined with Trees, you could barely see their tops.

Fifteen minutes in and I began to feel the warmth of the sun, hitting my heels
The path ahead lit by the warm soft glow of the sun, giving the start of the day an ethereal feel
Twenty minutes and now the fog begins to lift
My spirits are beginning to change, uplift.

Twenty-five minutes have now gone by and I have almost arrived, it usually takes me twenty-three
The fog has lifted and now I can see, exactly was happening around me
I could see people walking their dogs, walkers walking and runners jog
The Trees on the banks of the Canal have burst through the fog.

I could see People at the start of their day, some stop you and say, “good morning what a nice day”,
Some just smile as you pass them, on your way
Some pass you by, phones to their ears, never catching your eye
Some smile sweetly, a little shy.

When the fog lifts and the Sun cast its rays
You hope it’s going to be the start of a beautiful day
Hope grows therein
Hope for better, warm days, beautiful spring flower displays
The hope for warm sunny days begins.
My walk this morning
Seanathon Feb 8
Fog like mountain eyebrows, hovering above the area of Earth which splits between the snowy ground.

A train to steep the far side of the valley, and the other now filled with the exiting towns.

And I the traveler between the two heights. Wondering how and why this fog stays this way around.
A morning view unique to many
The pickups across the alley seem asleep. No lights, exhaust fumes, man at the wheel ready to wheel into another work day.
Winter-denuded trees blend into his roof like dark rivulets from its peak. No lights in this dawning Saturday, all still asleep.
Except the birds feasting in the newly seeded bird feeder. In the softness of this new dawn their flights are silent.

The fog shrouded morning suffuses softness to hard edges.  Clapboard storage unit rests quietly on the edge of the lawn.
Rakes, mowers, hoes still asleep, no work tension in their bodies. Fallen browned leaves lay on still-green lawn gently carpeting “the back.”
Cold black fingers of tiny limbs indistinguishable as individuals, smudged and blending instead. No limber bending till months-away spring.

Trees in the distance surrender their stark names to clouded sky not yet brightened by the distant weakened sun. The fog has laid upon this place
a muted harmony.  No dissonant horns or voices heard in this diffused snooze of now.  The only movement: from the winged creatures
greeting the day just yards away reminding: life still pulses. I fall into this peace.

The fog of sleep
a hallway moment away
where my self is mellowed
and lost beneath the sheets.
Author’s note: This is my first attempt at writing a haibun, a sort of narrative haiku-like poem full of images but not much intellectual baggage. Thanks to Ronald Pavellas of Pathetic.org.
Broadsky Jan 31
We drove up through the fog on Jackson Mountain, the music carried the silence with a melodic tune that made it almost seem sweet; it was quiet and loud at the same time. "You want a cigarette?" he asks, interrupting the flow of thought through my stormy mind. I silently take the cigarette from him and put it in my mouth, the cigarette filter touching my lips when I wish it were him instead. I pull out my lighter, a blue and yellow flame assistant making my lungs black. He could never really read my handwriting, and he could never really make up his mind. He never read my journals and he hardly ever touched my face. He slept till 4 in the afternoon and threw the pillows over his head if he was disturbed. He hasn't traveled and he doesn't like tattoos. Him. That sounded so sweet just hours before now ****** my tongue to bleed. my love has turned to resentment and everything he does now has lost its glow, the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes don't shout laughter anymore, his curly hair is just a mess now, and his eyes once a beautiful sky blue are just a dusty old ball kicked around in bare feet... But still here I am with you driving through the fog on Jackson Mountain.
December 29, 2015
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