Occasional poet and half-hearted story author based in the UK. Beware modernism and haiku! Critiques welcome.
The poet stared his quarry down, Felt sure it would relinquish It's essence (as per Ezra Pound), To start what he could finish. A glass of water on a shelf, Mundane, yet beautifully so.
Rain hits the windshield Minuscule barrage on glass Wiper uppercut.
can'tbreathecan'tbreathecan'tbreathe. air. why are we leaning. another plane ohshitohshitnottheothertowernowhy. probably another coming my way maybe not but do I.
Time stops. Or is irrelevant now. Centuries of chasing, squandering, saving, killing, running, cheating, Have come to nothing. If there were rivers still, they would run dry. Mountains, crumble.
My brittle mind groans. The clock patiently reaches around for it's hands While mine scribble, dazed In the fake toobright light.
The sea, the sea, To me will always be An inanimate object..
A tiny shuffle - perhaps a rabbit going about It's business. Black ears snap to attention At the giveaway noise.
Upside-down cloud sea Rolls on gently with the wind Plane causes ripples.
A crane fly glides past Black and yellow blur flashes False alarm - no sting.
Moon draws closer still Unwilling voyager stares Tiny lights gaze up.
The orange death-call Goes unnoticed by proud trees Bracing for snowfall.
Grass lovingly flows Over the mountain surface Fed by meltwater.
While fir trees rejoice At the lifting of their load Dying snow despairs.
Monochrome mountain Harbours black-and-white fir trees Catching snow from clouds.
A drop of water Falls into the shining sea Returned by a gull.
The crystal snow waits Shining silver moon above Watches patiently.
I am wasting my time. 'Using' It used to be. Dancing while All around The Sky Burns Silentdancingcrazycalmmonkeyman, om.