Haiku Showing 8,201-8,250 of 8,460

[Ryan]

A ghostly skiff, their
earth-bound hearse, who once boldly
trekked the universe.

[Ryan]

heaves a contented *sigh*

[M]

Ryan wrote: “A ghostly skiff . . .”

The boat transported
rubies, pearls, and green, dark-eyed
Orion slave girls.

[Ryan]

In the bow she mourns
many lost things, nights dancing
among Saturn’s rings

[M]

Wow, Ryan! What images! I think that’s great writing. How in the world to follow it?

[M]

They reached an ancient,
ghostly pier. The underworld
had gathered to hear.

[M]

Gust-scattered ash leaves
struck the window, urging him
to run after her.

[Ryan]

M wrote: "They reached an ancient,
ghostly pier. The underworld
had gathered to hear."

Thanks, M :)

In ghostly script, carved
on the pier - “2020,
the devil woz ‘ere.”

[Ryan]

Al wrote: "I wrote this yesterday, oddly, trying to get back into the groove of writing haiku. I haven't written it for a long time.

If the leaves settle
into place, comfortable,
then we are autumn."

Lovely, Al :)

[M]

The brick path led him
to laughter of an evening
he had forgotten.

[M]

Very nice!

[Ryan]

Their paths meet beneath
a lilac moon. Eyes linger
long, night ends too soon.

[M]

Through leaves the moon shone
like a wave-strewn piece of eight
in a reef’s shallows.

[Ryan]

M wrote: "Through leaves the moon shone
like a wave-strewn piece of eight
in a reef’s shallows."

I love this, M.

[Ryan]

Milky Way above,
churning waves shatter the moon—
slivers of morning.

[M]

Thank you, Ryan!

The embroidered sails
she unfurls, their spun-gold sheen,
seem sewn from her curls.

[Ryan]

In all the seas, from
west to east, no jewels outshine
her tresses released.

[M]

Her crew were loyal,
her ship’s mice always on hand
to offer advice.

[Ryan]

Well-dressed pirate mice
are very rare, the hot noon
sun soon makes them bare.

[M]

“We’re well dressed, Malcolm,”
muttered Clyde. Earl sneezed: “That means
an in-law has died.”

[M]

His trousers, once tight,
now were loose; nor did he have
such a big caboose.

[M]

Overhead, a flock
of geese; below them, a train
trailing three cabeese.

[Ryan]

Steam train, thundering
into morning. Dream train, a
new day is dawning.

[M]

Melba drained her third
flagon, then slew the scaly,
steam-breathing dragon.

[M]

She spoke of gold trays,
rubied delights, noon-parched days,
and unfaithful knights.

[Ryan]

Sheathed by day, noon’s sun
too hot. In darkness cloaked, he
used his lance a lot.

[M]

Soon many damsels
were in distress. Lance rode free,
for none would confess.

[Ryan]

His glory ends, one
fatal slip—you just can’t joust
with a snapped lance tip.

[M]

Tired of lance, of sword,
of fray, he moved back to France
and ran a café.

[Ryan]

Haha! Love it, M :)

[M]

Thank you! By the way, I liked the poem you posted in October (“He who fights monsters”). I read it right after you posted it, and I had intended to comment but got distracted.

[Ryan]

Thanks, M. Very kind.

[M]

Demure, not the sort
to lecture, she leafed through books
on architecture.

[Ryan]

A page from one old
tome tore free, a seed which spawned
her family tree.

[M]

Hers was a volume
soaked with such sin, it could have
no ISBN.

[Ryan]

Hers was a story
for the ages—knights, maidens,
dragons and mages.

[M]

Mae preferred not knight
but farmer: free of chain mail,
buckles, and armor.

[Ryan]

Long, winter days pass
spinning yarn; warm summer nights
on hay in the barn.

[M]

Great images, Ryan!

[C. J., Cool yet firm like ice]

Creak of porch floorboards
Rid the serene summer morn
in my rocking chair

[M]

Nice, CJ!

The shadows lengthened
like spilled wine, foretold the night
of the wild grapevine.

[M]

Thank you, Alex! I’ve revised it to tighten it up.

[T]

Fingers pick out tunes
cold river smoothing through rocks
bluegrass tumbling down.

[M]

She sang of ghost towns’
haunted saloons’ pianos
playing antique tunes.

[C. J., Cool yet firm like ice]

Walk dizzingly
between life and death; a call
of noises beckon.

Wow that was dark and from a pretty dark origin too. (I've gotten sick recently but I am staying positive. My dreaded "test" is Saturday!).

[Ryan]

The dust on Main Street
softly stirs, lost memories
grate like rusty spurs.

[M]

Beautiful haiku, Tamara (#8275).

Take care of yourself, CJ!

Ryan, you know how to write ’em! As usual, you’ve come up with a word sketch as graphic as if it were in charcoal or oils.

[M]

Turned posts, board sidewalks:
midday heats the sagging walls,
a well choked with reeds.

Old panes: nothing stalks
the evening’s streets but shadows
of blown tumbleweeds.

[C. J., Cool yet firm like ice]

Thank you M. I appreciate it and I will!

Also great haikus, you guys!

[Guy]

The sere stalks stand still,
a sill now silted with dust
are shadows no more.