The gardener jumped over the grasshopper
That winks and blinks three times
Each dew drop was released from an old dropper,
Held by a smiling child
That smile rolled under a roly poly
And ran barefoot for miles
As all gasped with a Holly Molly
When the grass grew upside-down.
Don't mind all this hurry
Turn your own clock's hands
Who knows,why people worry
They've been writing all in their plans...
The songs were heard in loudest whispers
Sang by the leaves on trees,
Where the cat took rest to lick his whiskers,
Waiting for the mouse to say please.
The sound that the rain
makes while beating on my aluminium roof
is music to my ear
Haiku about rain. 8/31/2019 © A B Faniki am always fun of rain
There's a dull drumming
a music to all things
and sometimes it seems like I'm the only one who
can hear the rhythm.
Like how the lights radiate vibrato violins
and the lawnmower outside
Or how the crickets at night,
with their apparent music
chirp a lullaby for the Wild Things.
The Wild Things
aren't strictly monsters
made of hoof and horn,
but sometimes they are children
with the soul of a wild horse
or a mountain lion.
Sometimes they are women
who dreams have never been
stuck in twilight.
Sometimes they are men
who wish for something more.
Sometimes they are creatures
with no body. Just a soul incarnated as a central being.
Sometimes the Wild Things aren't really things at all,
but songs and stories told to babes
who wander too far from their mothers
sometimes they are just animals
ones we can't see nor hear nor smell.
Ones we can only imagine in our wildest,
most fruitful dreams.
The Wild Things,
they don't have one place where they all go,
like the stories foretold.
Instead, they have many safe places
lairs and hideaways and crypts and haunts
all around us. Sometimes,
are within us.
The music of the Wild Things.
Not everyone can hear.
Only other Wild Things can listen to it.
And as such,
I have forgotten my duties as a young woman
on an earth full of human pests
and resumed my life as a Wild Thing
with my hideaway as
underneath the clothes in my closet.
I could build a tunnel down through the ground
and connect my crypt
with those of the other Wild Things
so that we may dance and sing our songs together
in a cave beneath the world.
I'll only ever have my tears
to fall asleep to.
Behind the heater
crickets chirp at their loudest –
to put me to sleep.
"Otcy i deti" ("Fathers and children" / "Fathers and sons", 1862, Ivan Turgenev)
In the black velvet sky
With sparkling gems
To make wishes on
To accompany you,
Oh lovely moon,
How bright you shine
This summer's night
The crickets sing
Me a lullaby
As I fall asleep
In the moon's arms
Her light cradling me
As my heavy lids droop
I put myself back in that place,
Beyond the veil of that fall-turning-to-winter night
Clentched together in the backseat of my Honda,
The air was foggy with anticipation
As the delicate murmurs of gentle songs
Hummed, and I breathed in the scent of your hair
As my nose rest against the top of your head,
And your eyes reflected off mine,
A halo of fractured light from
The street lamp outside
Graced the silhouette of your lullaby face,
A stern wind shook the car
But were forever still
In each other's arms,
Warmed by the years
We dreamed of