A second flood
Retraced the first,
Floating debris,
Memories hurt.
Inundated
By the third,
I ran for miles,
Through copse
And dirt;
Levy bursting,
Cells submerged.
I resurfaced,
Alone, inert.
Tag: ego
Haiku #651
651.
Supple, carefree grace,
Always appreciated.
Focus errs again.
Haiku #650
650.
Overarching heaven;
There is nothing we can’t do
When shedding ego.
Bad Escapologist
I tried to escape
My feelings for you,
But feelings were traced
By doves wearing blue.
They kept me in cuffs
While your heart was true,
And when I woke up,
He loved you anew.
Haiku #642
642.
Should I write poems
I write for you. Ego’s old,
Selflessness is new.
Little Mjölnir
A hammer I found
On a tall mound of earth,
Only man-made,
So little like Thor’s.
I swung it at mountains
Of old washing up,
I heaved through the trees
Of ancestors lost.
The townspeople laughed
As I toiled and I huffed,
Its handle unvarnished,
Its corners were scuffed.
Look at him missing,
They sang and they coughed,
But they couldn’t see
The meaning of moths,
Shattered my ego,
Departing the docks.
The Coast Of Devotion
A part of my curse,
Inculcated, in marrow,
Nearing kingdoms of self
A wider gulf narrows.
I’m rebuffed, beaten back,
By bluffs from sea-sparrows,
Fall from a deck
On to self-tinctured arrows.
Where you are on green,
I’m red at the light;
When I dreamt I was falling
You stood through the night.
I expect this will pass,
For the future’s in sight,
Where I can’t compete
With gifts in your life.
A future sea-faring
In circular motions,
Just out of reach
From shores of devotion.
When all is extinguished
Find new attuned heights,
Blessed by Love’s arms,
Devoid of the night.
Haiku #630
630.
Behind my good eye
A typewriter, font and ink.
I think I should write.
Haiku #629
629.
All those car owners
Driving by, I did not know,
Before they too died.
An Exhumation
There were traces of me,
Some burnt vestiges
Found under mulch,
Detritus in strata, then debris.
I didn’t look very much like me,
But the finders were keepers
And they all disagreed.
They could have just left
The stagnant shell of myself
Where I’d slept all those years;
My mouth full of moss, and behind
My green eyes, fern-flooded ears.
After their initial shock
Discovering me in those woods
For a while I wondered
If they could return,
Yet they did, armed with candles
And prayers and books
With scripts I’d unlearned since
There’s nothing to read
With an ego interred.
After they repatriated me
Within the appropriate earth,
All the towns seemed different,
New, not shiny or imbued
With ores, nor for once subdued
By saddening flags and blankets,
Whose seven colours draped
And sometimes secured
Our feelings, through sombre times,
Thankless times, where we found
The end of heaven.
