Courageous Cat (and Other Haikus)

Dusty

I glide my finger

across the dusty table

drawing a clean line.

 

Night Light

The beacon of light

in the deep sea of darkness

guides me to the loo.

 

Watchers

The empty-eyed doll

stares at me from the counter

as I sit and write.

 

Mouth Washed

The taste of hand soap

scrapes like sand against my tongue

to expunge the dirt.

 

Courageous Cat

Sparked by adventure,

he journeys into my room,

then bolts when I move.

——

 

Hello there!

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Po-em – A Poem

Po-em

 

My teacher pronounces it po-em

like Edgar-Allan and Emily’s lovechild—

conceived by passionate creaks

in the bed above the floorboards,

then birthed without a proper name.

 

When she grows up, will she wonder

why her parents left her on the doorstep?

Or as she is pressed against the table

by the orphanage’s overseer, will she even care

who wrote her into such an existence?

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – First Kiss

It starts with a spark on the lips, quickening like kindling in a dry brush. The heartbeat runs as fast as it can, but one by one the synapses catch fire, until one is engulfed it in the wave of heat. Yet they see only the blush and a smile.

——

 

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Ailment – A Poem

Hey there! Just a short poem today, since I seem to have come down with a sickness.

 

Ailment

 

The air enters my battered lungs

like a wind scraping the sails

of an empty boat, bobbing up

and down amid the shifting waves.

——

 

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Spring – A Poem

Hey everyone! I wrote this poem a while ago for my aunt’s art opening, and as I am short on time today, I figured I’d post it!

 

Spring

 

The milky reflection of the winter scape receded

as the first strands of pinkish sunbeams for the year

broke over the mountainside, waking the robins,

and the orioles and the bluebirds, for duty,

 

like the waking calls of a mother at dawn,

ushering her tired children in for breakfast

before the long day of school. And those birds in turn

woke their siblings the bees, and the foxes;

the otters, and the bears, until the whole valley was filled

with the happy cries of birds and beasts alike.

 

Those are the kind of days that I long for when I wake,

caught somewhere between the light of fantasy

and the dirt-stained grit of reality. Days where spring

breaks into the infectious rhythms of lovemaking,

while the hate, prejudice, and torment of modern life

take a pause for the trees to breathe a sigh of fresh air.

 

But now, looking through these dusty old windows,

I realize that summer is setting in quicker than it ever has

and that this lovely spring was wasted

in the minuscule confines of an office cubicle.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – Pouring

The air seemed to freeze. Sounds seemed to hesitate. The room stood still as eyes spread wide with awe and fear. All things seemed to stop. The rain had grown so strong it that it pelted the roof like drums; the stream from the gutter grown into a gushing waterfall.

——

 

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Sprite – A Poem

Sprite

 

How the crisp spritz of clear fizz spits

as sips slip ‘tween the pixie’s lips,

licking and picking and sticking like cliques

that chitter about their blithering wits.

——

 

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A Man Sits in the Room – 4

A man sits in the room.

He’s still just staring at the wall. Like a rat in a cage. All he does is sleep, shit, and nibble absentmindedly at the plates we give him. He pushes that pen from page to page like they were his claws, tearing through newspaper just because, even if he doesn’t get anywhere.

But what do I know? I just bring the water and make sure his inkwell never runs dry. I ain’t like you, who waltzes in here without a care in the world, takes two looks at a sheet of numbers, and runs back to wherever it is you came from.

I yelled at him the other day just to see what would happen. It shocked him right out of his writing. He jumped with such a start that he knocked over the ink and it spread across the pages like a slow, creeping disease.

I’d apologize for ruining his notebook, but it’s not like he’d written anything important there. You might have been able to piece out three or four words in that heap of scratched out pages.

Maybe next time you’ll get him some non-spill ink or something. Go on, get out. Let me know what your seniors think about his wild antics. It isn’t like I’m going anywhere.

——

 

Hello there! This is part 4. See part 1, part 2, and part 3.

 

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A Man Sits in the Room – 3

A man sits in the room.

He has taken up tapping; usually with a pen, against the paper on the desk, but every once in a while I’ll catch him rapping his fingers on the wall. It is driving me insane.

It’s like the slow rolling tick of a clock. Sometimes he loses himself and strikes the surface so hard he shocks himself out of the daze. You know how it is, when the world is lost when you adventure in your mind.

He seems to have found other motivation as well. The ink pours so much like a waterfall nowadays, you might be temped to think he was copying a book, rather than writing one. Unfortunately, every page seems to be nonsense.

Perhaps, the next time you run out to the market, you could get him some more of those pens? He definitely likes the blue ones you bought him the other day.

What’s that? You didn’t buy those? Well, I always thought you might be a regifter. Ever since you got me that shower mat—you know, the one with the red and green flowers on it? It’s not a big deal though—I’ve quite enjoyed them! Ah, but look at the time. Next week?

——

 

Hello there! This is part 3. See part 1 and part 2.

 

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Cur – A Poem

MAN! 2018 was a hard year. While I can’t help but hope for humanity in 2019, 2018 seems to have left the world weary and beaten. Hence this poem.

 

Cur

 

How quick the yips of the young pup

curdled like milk in the hot sun.

Only the drowsy moans that poured

in sour chunks from his white mouth

recalled the sweet taste of his youth.

——

 

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