Weekly Short Stories Contest and Company! discussion
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Haiku
I am so obsessed With where you cast your gaze that
I can't even sleep
Fearing enemies
Laying claims on my long since
Abdicated throne
Where she in sorrowcast her gaze lie late shadows
of blustery days.
Wind, my love, do blowBlow like a hellion to me
Until you run out
Down the moon-pale shoreshe fled. Spray dripped from her clothes,
her dark hair, her face.
“By the old lighthouse,”
he had said, and soon she reached
that bleak, ruined place.
The moon glows pure whitethe seas given life- such sights
in beauty of night.
The autumn moon sighed,dragged down a few cigs, and sipped
a Long Island tea,
splashed shores with the tide,
took the Myers-Briggs, and typed
as INFP.
The moon’s pale fingersdiscern the broken pilings,
the storm-rutted shore.
She thinks of the tern,
the sea like silver filings,
the Norse raiders’ lore.
For all your balladsWith a guitar in your arms
There's no room for me
She strums the tuneHer voice lilts as if echoed
to the moon, alone
her sound is. Just her
the guitar- sad yet lovely
the blue love song was.
(Inspired from a song I remember. "Lover's Moon") :D
(Rachel, you need to publish these! How to follow CJ’s?)
He closed his Goethe,opened his Byron. There gleamed
an autumn’s lodestar.
Wind whipped sheet music,
waking a siren, her lair
a Spanish guitar.
Her hair is red; nay,A siren red that makes men
Fall under her spell
I am wanderingno direction and few words
no sign posts, no guides.
Thank you, Alex. I think it was the professor in Thomas Carlyle’s Sartor Resartus (“the tailor re-tailored”) who said, “Close thy Byron; open thy Goethe.”How to follow Lillianmoore’s or Paula’s?
((M, plain ol' Lil will do if thy fingers doth tire. It's a compliment, though, to have thee question how to follow mine, in my own underrated opinions. I thank thee heartily.))Weary wanderers
Women of the world at large
Tire yourselves to rest
Nor would she that curserescind! A rotting signpost
with a stylized rune
creaked at the crossroads
in a November wind, lit
by a witch’s moon.
In plague-infesteddays of old, when plates were wood
and ale mugs were tin,
and the rumors rife
of pirates’ gold, nearby stood
a gaunt wayside inn.
Treasure chest of talesstill to be told; knights of
yore and pirates gold.
An oddment of starsburrow in the universe
shining differently.
The strange reflections
spark only for the careless;
blindness becomes moot.
What of tomorrow
when today is yet unseen?
Find yesterday's sheen.
In starry oddments
yet burrowed in the secrets
we cared not to find.
.We carried secrets
That like stars their gravity
Have moved and bound us.
Their weight guides our paths
With such soft unseen fingers
That we are like breath.
The breath that finds skin
And caresses it even
As the stars watch us.
((My heck, Guy, that was gorgeous!))
[Thank you Lillian and M. It's been a while. I needed to shake the dust off. Great to see how much excellent writing has been put up here in my long absence.]
Thank you! We'll see if I can sustain my being back. Still very busy in life.
As long as the moonabsorbs and reflects the light
there will be warmth enough
The reflected moonPaused in the October leaves,
Emptied the garden.
The month OctoberScary and yet exciting,
Little lamb, my birthday
(Those who have not watched the musical "Gypsy" will most likely not get the last line.)
((Wow, Al, that was creepily delicious! Great job!)
Alex (Al) wrote: "A leaf floats through anOctober wind, circling down
onto autumn's end.
The bard yawns a song,
sleepily welcoming the
winter's beginning.
A moon shrinks into
a pale river bend. The
gray sun doe..."
((Guess it just depends on your point of view. I personally loved it.))
Lillian and Al. Both beautiful and reflective!Thank you Al. Glad you enjoyed it.
Far beneath his songThe dark chords unbound his voice
Reformed the soft clay.
((I messaged you back, Guy. :D))
[[:-) Yes. And I will respond soonish. ]]
(Sorry for the delayed response, but thanks for the lovely compliment M. It means a lot!)A voice like a glove
Sliding silk along her spine
To hint at her hips
A suggestion of
Quickened breath sounds, a loud moan
Silent promises
In the hushed clear nightThe bright moon is warm skin and
The tickle of breathe.
His forgotten voiceBegan to growl with vigor
The call of her touch.
In dreams he confessedof whom he was fond, the girl
who haunted his days,
who wandered through leaves
as autumn undressed the oaks
in an evening’s haze.
Sometimes a redhead
or bottle blonde, she followed
the old railroad ties
past the grist mill’s stones,
the reeded pond, and lured him
with murmuring eyes.
Thank you, Alex! As usual, it’s a couple of ballad stanzas masquerading as 5-7-5.
Beautiful, Alex!The hearth fire crackled
hollowly. Her photographs
lay in the drawer.
What unearthly hue
would her hair be, he wondered,
next time he saw her?
Haha, I know the type - always wailing ;)
Love's hangover churnsIn intolerant stomachs
Courting heart burn
"Take me!" she cried out"Take me, oh please! Far away
Where the Nazi's are."
((I have no idea where that came from.))
His heart was what shebuilt a fire in when she spoke--
that tall, blonde siren,
her fingertips charged
with lightning (and how she used
them could be frightening).
Lillianmoore wrote: ""Take me!" she cried out"Take me, oh please! Far away
Where the Nazi's are.""
Lol!
Great fun, everyone. :-)
Star Trek haiku! A flashback to the days of the U.S.S. Micrometer and the space harem Plasmodium (1167-1346).
Weekly Short Stories Contest and Company!
Books mentioned in this topic
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Marcovaldo (other topics)
Invisible Cities (other topics)
Confessions of a Taoist on Wall Street (other topics)
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Authors mentioned in this topic
David Payne (other topics)Thomas Merton (other topics)
Robert Payne (other topics)
Barbara Gowdy (other topics)
David K. Reynolds (other topics)
The promises you pretend
To keep for my sake.