“You know,” the spouse mused,
“This bird’s the double D-cup
of the poultry world.”
The haiku challenge is over, but I am unable to dismantle the machine. Though it may look as if I am listening to you intently, I am probably just counting your syllables.
Nirvana plays on–
without Kurt or anomie–
in waiting rooms now
For the Weekly Writing Challenge.
Yesterday, The Daily Post issued a haiku challenge for the week: five haikus in five days. Please be kind; I’m a little rusty. I haven’t written one of these since puberty.
from bare rock like cone-shaped swords
A land with no trees
I was shell-shocked, sleepless,
mostly numb for three days straight.
On the fourth day, I was holding our tiny creation, mesmerized by her miniature, spastic gestures,
when I felt a sudden rush of sorrow and overwhelming futility.
Who am I to invite someone new into this crazy world?
Though fierce when provoked, I am so small, my shell hopelessly permeable.
What protection can I offer this perfect and vulnerable creature?
I wept for the confusion in store for her, for the first time she will be disappointed–perhaps by me–
And for the first time her heart will be broken.
Tiny girl clutched her raggedy rabbit
in a very particular way:
one bunny ear tucked in her mouth, keeping her thumb company,
the other poked partway up her nose
in a warm and vaguely comforting way.
She teetered on the edges of the room,
saucer-eyed and silent,
watching chaos unfold.
caustic blasts of incomprehensible rage and frustration,
and at last, a primal bleating
made her customary nighttime monsters seem benign and predictable.
My eighth grade English teacher made us memorize poems and recite them in front of the class.
“Someday you’ll thank me,” she said. “What if you’re sent to prison? How will you make the time pass?”
Two years later, we stopped for tea with relatives before starting a 200-mile drive.
I gripped my warm mug and eyed the drifting flakes, tuning out my aunt’s cheerful banter.
Then, rolling at last,
The heavens opened
And deposited a great wall of snow in front of our Chevy.
Piled atop each other, we spent the next cramped hours
Edna St. Vincent Millay
I went to a party this weekend–the kind with save-the-dates and RSVP’s.
A twenty-four hour party, in a house full of favorite people.
We had long conversations,
and random, hilarious exchanges in the kitchen, doubling over and holding the counter for support.
As the light faded, a surf band materialized…
and a truckload of barbecue,
margaritas in mason jars,
ping pong, dancing,
and heat lamps on the giant patio.
Then, around 10 pm, I started thinking about that great book in my bag,
and the pile of pillows on my fuzzy blanket
and I wondered:
am I a little under the weather? Or just old?
Special bonus! One of my favorite poems of all time:
Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight?
– Edna St. Vincent Millay