Haiku #317 – #319

317.

False comparisons;
Like atoms dressed as stars,
Ego travels far.

318.

Morning is guilty;
By the afternoon auto-cruise.
Evening descends again.

319.

Accident, blue lights.
Seventh anniversary,
Inner child held tight.

The Index Of Loss

Here is a new list
From your index-loving
London landlubberly
Homeless poetess.
This inexhaustive catalogue
Announced itself
With an unflinching focus on
My losses; losses I could not resist.
What else would I do with my pigment?
There are many matters
For my conservationists
To tell their grandchildren
Before we forget
What we have expunged
In recent years,
Which incidentally I confess
Is as long as the hex
Held me in its torpidness.
In no particular order then:
Hitchhiking,
Self-moderation in politics,
VHS and compact discs,
Car tax certificates and
The Lust of Velologists;
Yes, things which used to exist,
Extinguished existentialists;
Dreams of archaeologists,
Ozone, arctic shelf,
All trust in the famous
And icons with wealth,
West African Black and
Northern White Rhinos.
There was a success
Eradicating viruses, true,
Such as Smallpox, and Polio,
Until SARS-CoV-2.
Serendipity found only in libraries,
And the accurate use of apostrophes,
Redundant prophecies,
Diplomacy and statesmanship;
Any atomized item to furnish the list
May some day yet resurface;
If as with vinyl it’s retro,
If DNA’s injected it’s revivalist;
An internet without the bots
Which grease
Half or more of the trafficking bits;
Chocolate bars in larger parts,
Justifiable war, and any peace.
Innocence fled having witnessed
How Cupinharós were mistreated,
Faith soon followed for people
Who lived, and loved,
At Srebenica and Badajoz,
Mosul, my neighbour next;
Reading for pleasure by daughters
And the use of offline maps;
Post from someone expressing
Affection and kindness, instead of bland
Official letters
Unlicked into envelopes the colour
Of a lizard’s vomit,
Words now used and always wanting;
Lastly, for now, I will finish
With ethics and veracity
Where the investigatory power
Buried a woman, then truth,
On a small Mediterranean island,
Where a car exploded one summer.

Last Laugh

My namesake unearthed me again,
My nemesis perhaps, my friend
At the pre-arranged place of his choosing.
Below him, not England’s green fields gone,

But the abyss which beckoned his backbone
And swirled the spleen, abused with doubt
And confusion, a waking and constant stream.
There are no tracks at the viaduct now,

Demoted by lemongrass, lavender-time
And sorghum seeds on a breeze,
Soft and endlessly fine,
Eyes closed, I savoured their caresses on my skin.

It was a challenge too far to know friendship,
Even mere acquaintances and incidentalists
Outsourced self-judgment and harm
Without realising its bruising impact on you.

A gleam of green herrings hung from the arches;
Your tongue was cold and grey when they found you.
For Victorian appliances we still have some use;
I saw an ambulance stuck in the marshes.

I thought about the last time you probably felt
You were ignored regarding something which
With the aperture of hindsight was trivial or mundane.
Your first and last fleeting kiss with the girl

Who had a bandage on her wrists, extra melanin,
And in her stomach a whole world waiting.
I saw the hunting season, the cat got your tongue
And toyed with it, as if a dead fieldmouse,

Not hungry, just bored. Nature is fastidious.
Your last bath, your last word read in the last book
You felt inspired by momentarily, without finishing.
Your last dinner you could not eat,

And a last diary entry; the ink ends
Where you lost the pendulum that thinks.
Your last laugh, when you were younger,
Before the goddess of the moon infused you

With her curse, stung by a bee in its skep.
Your last time to sleep, unconditionally.
I saw haunting stigmata cauterizing your mother,
I saw unholy water supplant the blood of your father,

I saw silencing stones in the bronchi of your brother.
Blessed are those oblivious
To the some-time sheer effort of living,
Feeling our lungs automated with bellows

And pulleys, feeling as though we were
Conceived as a different species: frog-skin,
Toadstool, or the rare and protected beetle
That lived in the marsh below the bridge

Which in later years was drained of its matter,
Suffocated with copper-clad wires and cement
For a housing estate; the planners
Ordained the place with one or two willows,

And named the streets, vainglorious fellows,
After flowers bountiful, wild and yellow;
By your body blossomed, abundant show,
But all that was lost, many years ago.

Broodmare Dam

A dream of horses in rain
And a dead bookmaker’s tic-tac:
Sais a wang and Major Stevens;
Silks in vibrant shades,
Saddles weighted with seasons;
The going was good
And the odds were even.

Those thoroughbreds were long dead too,
Yet my mind unwoken is ransacked still;
Eight furlongs for a mare’s mile made,
My subliminal gizzard’s a hippophile;
Beaufort Scales in their withers
And flaring from their nostril frills
With muzzle of fire, and hooves of steel.