Fantasy Haiku II

I
Grass blades towering;
a toadstool hanging over
tiny silhouettes.

II
Silvery fish leap
from shimmering falls, and splash –
– splatter lights of sprites.

III
Clouds are unravelled
into thin white lines when the
forked tail darts from them.

IV
Grey raindrops pounding;
wings beating, hooves clop the soil —
a Pegasus lands.

V
Night – mushrooms light paths
of glowing green spots, where fae
dance distracting rows.

VI
Emeralds twinkle
in the dark stone walls, watched by
sharp and pearly eyes.

Fantasy Haiku I

I
Honey song rising
from the river mouth, fine lips
of merfolk glisten.

II
Green grass is pooling
over water, which stirs when
heads rise on long necks.

III
Many thin-edged wings
filter the morning light, both
reticulated.

IV
Crack in red ceiling:
outside the cave, warm wind sweeps —
a dragon flies past.

Bees

What a heavy burden is a name that has become too famous. –  Voltaire

People plaster names like bees. Bees are squished flat on the salty sidewalk, and sidewalk is just another name for pavement so we see how one word paves the way for the other. The Other oozes odour from the bees we’ve plastered on them – them blood and guts that is the matter in all of us. ‘Us’ is a name, too. Two of us could be enough to smudge another bee-corpse thin on the invisible face of Anger; anger being the plaster for any number of other feasible emotions: it lets us smell them out in the dark. Dark days drone ahead, in patterns of figures eight, to rotten flowers. Flowers are sought-out by names, roiling roses, bouquets of cards and signed by people. People are spread flat on the bitter sidewalk, naming and naming, and are crushed beneath the names like winded bees.

Saturday Morning Cartoon

There on the screen an upright bear
has cleaned his hat and packed his bag,
slipped on his boots to leave the lair.

A bluish shade on every crag
adorns his world of plans and care;
he prints a paw on every tag.

Along the path the weight may wear
the sack like steel upon his back,
an iron maiden, bludg’ning care.

The bear with shoulders shrugged does dare
to pull apart his perfect boon
to toss aside a torch, a pear –

The forest dark approaches soon.
Off come the hat and things that lag
his pace. Goodbye the golden noon

He bounds on fours, sans weight or drag!

The Survival of the Species

A lizard loses a tail to leave its life

for death’s later taking. The sinewy string

falls off and transforms

into something forgotten.

 

I could not remember the time of its passing:

the body, or the limb. Evidently,

neither was so important to me

as the act of the losing.

 

It was swift and it was graceful,

never had I seen a battle

so quickly dropped to save a war.

It was grace and it was torture

to electrify with all the lightning of nature

only vicariously.