jornales

for a moment of joy or moments no one pays for, i give myself a ‘jornal’. this makes me rich. try it.

cackling

the measured widths we shrink into

talking in the darkness like late crickets heaving up a molehill

a cackle of office meniscus

summer drizzle a wet stone growing an ear

in a sonogram frog song

lollipops in the basket some promises un-swapped

war of the fishes stilled in a pitted clam shell

 

otata November 2017

February 28, 2018 Posted by | haiku, poetry, sequence, Uncategorized | , , , , , | Leave a comment

too late

too late

“dead cells”, they say of hair, same thing about nails, skin, too, that                                         sloughs off tempers, hurts, lusts, and regrets, which send the heart hurtling in Hades

caterwauling

flailing braided hair of nymphs, could they have been instruments of  execution? and the mane of golden boys, pennants in the eyes of virgins… unbeknownst dripping of night

a prolonged moon

on hair that has found its own rights and freedom, denuded by tectonic eruptions spewing inner fire, deluded by the burst of spring that by the time it booms, a live head

thuds on a stone grate

 

otata November, 2017

February 28, 2018 Posted by | free verse, poetry, Uncategorized | , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment