17 - On losing my Saturday and part of Sunday to a sodding migraine

#NaPoWriMo Day 17 (technically 19) and today I’ve been writing a haiku inspired by exactly what it says on the tin, as an emergency measure because, what with that and the epic editing process for Ouroboros, I’m now super behind.

Remember that, if you’re a subscriber to my Patreon, you can hear a recording of this piece (and the sixteen preceding it) there. The link to the relevant post is here: https://www.patreon.com/posts/on-losing-my-and-156046560

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It’s no joke in Spring;

no-one’s prepared to cope with

atmospheric shit.

Migraine Brain by me. I didn’t even both looking on Google this time.

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If you’d like to write your own haiku (in English), why not make use of my handy-dandy shareware spreadsheet that can help get you started? https://bit.ly/poemrep

2019.4 Ghost Tour

“Will you cover for me?” I’m helpless, delving into a set of well-worn expressions, shunning the stutter he beckons, projecting: Yeah, I reckon. “Listen,” he says, “I owe you one.” At this point, more like twenty, a reckoning that’s chasing propriety into an early grave. A new voice: “Step lively,” says Greg, head a conspiracy tilt past the fire hatch and we scurry, him stubbing, me shrugging, Greg’s gaze a spinning speculation I nudge from him. “Madame’s on the march,” he confides. I sigh. “No closer to the prize?” My turn to roll my eyes, grab regulation headgear, unprop the door while trawling for witticisms. Zilch. “There’s always next time.” “Sure, love. Sure.” We watch as he darts ahead.

Tip-toeing upstage,
We are mismatched murderers
Longing for a break.


Over to our old friend the random line generator for inspiration for this not-very-strict haibun, Words generated were: cover, march, listen, tip, upstage, point, chase, ghosts.

2018.15 Suffered a Sea Change

Woke to grey fingers
Legacy of last week’s sweat -
Spring’s gait hitched again.

2018.6 Unnamed

She is stained already, slain, sained, scraped with the impurity of the material picked out for her by a man with a plan, a penchant for antiquity. No iniquity is implicated here, but we are steered towards a dark and lingering gloss on high, undeveloped breasts, our eyes rest on a twist of faceless torso, shallow mons. This is battered, armless Psyche, who must rely, at all times, on masculine charity and her own unchancy beauty, punished for curiosity, rewarded for sleeping, silent.

Kept in splendid hush,
Drowned by her only action,
She waits to waken.

2015.23 - Shifting Gear

Birds experiment -
The time has come to challenge,
Ring in new changes.

Neighbour is hammering -
The time has come to peg out
New territory.

Candidates tell us:
"The time has come to fix things!"
Recycling mounts.

2015.12 - Devices

Green 

You whisper at night
Of theft, shine cruel light on all
My pitiful gifts

Gold 

One word can turn my
Head, spin me breathless in an
Endless mirror cave

Purple 

I squirm, caressing
Everything, dig deep, and come
Up sticky-fingered

Pink

Crammed to the rafters
I gape still, trying to fill
That elusive gap

Blue

If only I could
Stir myself to...

Orange

Less than the sum of
My parts, my heart hold no more
Space for charity

Red

Raze it to the ground,
Delight in the hollow thump
Of fists and bootheels


_______________________

There are traditional colours for these things, apparently, but I've chosen my own...

#19 Orrest Head, Windermere

Poetry's no good
When the landscape writes its own
Lines against the sky

Mere colludes with
Fells, sun, and horizon to
Scour me with beauty

I'm eyes without mouth,
Ears without fingers, and a
Soul with no outlet.

#10 On the First Sunny Week in April

Today is smiling,
No longer shy over bare
Shoulders of branches.

We are awash with
A froth of blossom, giddy
With fertility.

Greens are glossier,
Windows give back more blue, and
Hearts burden us less

We squint into kind
Brightness, ease shoulders against
The sun’s warm caress,
Grin to feel Spring’s fingers tug
Our hair, quaff drafts of cool air


For those of you interested in such things, I've combined three haiku/ senryū as verses, with a final tanka.

#18 Printemps 2

The season brings its
Own bright colours, dancing in
Pink, white, and yellow.

Trees curtsey full skirts
To flirt with nodding buds, the
Lush spurting green spikes.

Warm gusts chase clouds that
Fade with each breath, no longer
Pall - decoration.

I stride, breathing deep,
Letting Spring leap into me,
And laugh with each step.