Haiku #668

668.

Nettle mistiness;
Autumn settled overdue debts
With unfettered joy.

Tristessa

Strong hearts
Do not require taming,
Unmetallurgic wild horses
Never found comfort
In sodden-straw stables.
Your father brought home
For the old kitchen table
A brace of dead pheasants
Bound by a cable.

Through turbulent moors
And rubicon rivers
We felt there reverting
A timeless deep raging;
From scorched summers burning,
Briar-berry and bramble,
To winter’s bare pantry
Where salt pays for aging.

Together, five or six moments,
We felt more or less able
In the heartbeat of angels
To outlive the lengthy assailing,
(Daily they’re planted,
We later discovered)
Of all modern things
People now take for granted.

No one here has ever seen
Our grey-green seas
Deprived of life and motion,
The fossils would make a commotion!
No one observed those orchard trees
In the entirety of their devotion
To imparting the knowledge of apples,
And no one here speaks,
For our mouths do not open
(Unless for a token),
So I remain unable to say
How much one singular moment takes,
Though without you here
This feels like forever and its days,
Restrained by constant motion.

Harbour Bay

This is my weather-cape,
Haar, drizzle, mizzle-rain,
This is the reason
I crave the seasons
From Autumn through
To March again.

But though these isobars enliven
And my nerve ends are untightened,
As ferns befriend
Merest shaft and bend
Through forest canopies of light,

The ninety-four dialects
For coastal rains are choral sadnesses
In parachute refrains;
The front of the weathers I love
Is the end which keeps you at bay.

Compass

We’re North and South together,
Where East meets skies out West,
Where one devours the other,
Then sleeps within our chest.

We’re swamp-surrounded temples,
Six seasons sought defeat;
The vines our veins resemble,
Our ivy leaves complete.

We’re secret treasures guarded
By codes within a rhyme,
A compass shape is hearted,
A clock devoid of time.

Haiku #506 – #509

506.

A single stray cheek hair;
Penetration was not sought,
Yet you’ve chosen to.

507.

Giant bathroom crane-fly,
Brittle exquisite thing, here
Because I caught you.

508.

Large dark clouds scurry,
Harbingers of change, through rains,
I’d return with you.

509.

All’s impermanent,
Even summer in this place,
Even sleet in June.

Ode To May

The outside world thins,
As still as a painting,
A ceiling fan is spilling secrets
Without waiting
For interrogations
From daylight’s detectives,
Who pursuing will strive
To arrest and detain
The tails of life
Without ending,
Much like priests
But without overpayment,
And never successful.

The torsos of sinners
And chess for beginners,
Sweat drips on to a bishop,
Diagonal moves and although
The air is thinner
A nation exhales
Over mythic travails
With flags and balloons
And bunting, but I am not one
For hunting the hart of the past
To splay its bludgeoned carcass over
A diminishing present.

Cigarette-end days, hot ashes,
Swimming pool bans and
Dead roadside pheasants;
Trays of unaddressed fears unstamped;
An empty, drowsy watering can,
It’s years since I made resolutions
Because I do not trust myself
To keep their sacred seedlings safe,
And I do not trust dogma or customs;
The politicians appear like
Ice cream vendors on television
Misselling again,
Though broadcasters would have us think
That more believable are the men
Wearing patriotic ties.

Oxygen contracts like a dowager’s eye,
And if I am not mistaken
I’m waiting for havens
Of winter again.