The Lawn Mower

 

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My neighbor mows his lawn by the light of the moon. I listen to the whirr of the tractor’s motor grow near, and then recede. As if he follows the glow as the earth revolves, and the moon rises, or appears to. What does he think about, out there in the dark? His father recently died. Grief grips us by the lapels, throws us off balance. Maybe it is only under the cover of darkness that he finds solace. All the sudden, unbidden memories becalmed by the clamor of the engine. Maybe the moon massages the nostalgia into something manageable.

 

spring rain
seeds germinate
a flood of wildflowers

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For dverse Haibun Monday. Something I don’t do nearly enough of….

 

Thanks for reading..

The Power of Habit

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Emma wonders if any of the others are thinking of Macbeth and his witches. The kindling takes hold with a loud crack. Sparks flash, and rise into the night. Someone has thought to bring food this time: a pot of chili in a small cast-iron cauldron. Emma cannot imagine anyone will taste it. Their hunger is not for food. The pipe sizzles at the touch of the lighter. The itch of anticipation glides along her forearms. They all say they want to kick the habit. But, they’ve all been through rehab, at least once. It’s where some of them met.

 

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For Tara’s 100Word Challenge… the prompt this week is Habit. So many interpretations… what’s yours?

100-word-challenge

 

Love,

Harbinger

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he gets his ire all up
in her face
yowls at the voices
but she plays it cool
allows him to unwind
she takes his hand
zeroes in on his green eyes
tells him she loves him
crystal clear, and calm ascends
quatrains of reassurance
does he believe her
when she tells him he is her
xi her lucky star that
everything will be all right
nervy that’s what he is
jumps out of his skin
like wild prey on the run
kindness, it’s the only way he’ll
follow her lead
prayer, such as it is to her
goes some distance to
mend just a little of this
vexation at his malady
of his demons it’s her only
recourse or she’ll come
unbound

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OctPoWriMo – Day 12. Prompt was to write 26 lines using each letter of the alphabet. I didn’t put them in order, but they’re all there. I missed a few days, but I hope to get back in the groove!

Thanks for reading..Poetry5

Cheers,

Blackberry Thorns

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a spider’s single white filament
outside the bedroom window
dangles in the breeze
her wedding dress
on that solitary night
slashed by blackberry thorns
the berries liquid
splashed the dress with love
as she fled her loss of self
into the welcoming arms of the moon

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OctPoWriMo – Day 8 – Prompt was color… say what you will about it. I’m late to the page today. It was a busy day, but I can’t stop now. It’s like physical exercise (well, it is an exercise) when you find one you like it pulls you in, and soon you reap the benefits.

Thanks for reading!916f5-img_20150928_151453

Cheers!

Where the River Meets the Sea

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At the mouth of the river where fresh water collides with the sea he maneuvers his kayak in silence, the only sound the sluice of water against the paddles: right, left, right, left. He slides his vessel into the slow-moving current at the precocious wild rose that in the spring blooms the color of his wife’s flushed face asleep in the over-warm bed from which he slips on cat’s feet every morning, without fail, before dawn.

 

the wild rose
a deep pink
punctuation mark
no beginning and no end
where the river meets the sea

 

In the shallows he slows to watch two fish quietly tread water. Their tails churn the sand: right, left, right, left. He doesn’t know their name though each time he sees them he makes a mental note to find out what they are. But, he never does. The water becomes murky with movement, and he moves on.

 

two fish tread water
obscured in plain sight
triangle tails
in constant motion
do they mate for life?

His route to the sea is always the same, but the landscape is forever changing. Someone said you never step into the same river twice. He finds that to be true also of the land, the sky. One day the reeds are tall and straight, the next doubled over by the foraging of deer. Some mornings he cannot peer through the white, wet blanket of fog. The next gulls wheel and squall in the cloudless unfiltered sunlight. On another day torrents of rain cascade from his shoulders into the river, and at long last he feels cleansed.

 

impurities of sin
cleansed by the rain
and the sea
and the salt
burn the tongue

He once collided with sin. The memory of iron and rust forever on his tongue. The isolation, the violence, guilt and debt, fists in his belly: right, left, right, left. It’s in the past, but never, no not ever over. Before dawn he glides his kayak along the surface of the river. He collides with the sea. And on rare mornings when the rain scours his skin, at long last he feels cleansed.

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Tanka prose…. just because I felt inspired.