Some Dials

Revising

day,

Reclaiming hours,

I renamed chunks

to suit–

the mourning

AM

augured ill

–I deemed

it after moon…

the always sunrise

so conceived

was verity foretold.

Found afternoon

a lazy term,

that tells me what it’s not.

Meridians

are vital paths

to soul beyond

the dream,

with Posts & signs, I then assigned

new map to setting sun. . .

‘til leveling the

disparate pair at

twilight

–good and bad–

thus evening,

unsettling,

with cyclical

locution.

Eventually…Truffles


I right
until all that’s wrong
disappears
like
towns receding
in rear view mirror
the territory before me
hides history
 
revealing
blue
that’s found in grey
silver
lining mist
green
defying
auto-correct
as breadth
that threatened
–narrows

Garden Variety Haiku

 
 

when you till soil

day after day after day

it becomes fallow

 
 
 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/soil/

A Less Wonderland

 

trapped in

Wonderland

the cat seems less friendly

the bottles

have no messages

the cakes are mass

produced

and the Hatter

–missing C

is madder than before. . .

Same Difference

men will not

pen bodice rippers,

ripped to nip

it’s more the zipper

— –fly– —

 your guy

is still romantic,

just not aboard

a mock Titanic.

His light fantastic

might involve,

the horizontal

–after all

the same intent

as steamy novel,

but not dressed up

in tawdry twaddle.

The bloom he offers

just might be,

a rushing flush

to both your cheeks

as such negating

need for vase

you can’t stuff stems

of bloom on face

so rest assured

though he may not–

write you sonnets

on the spot,

he thinks & feels

the same as you,

all mushy, gushy

—slightly blue.

 

C’lover

I wanted to believe

in the whole 9 yards again

–regarded window

without glass–

lacking screen

and picked defense

(in reflection without backing)

I detected green

–in brown—

& growth

–once more—

and flowers some call weeds

wilting & unwatered

I gardened, then,

stripped poison oak

from

morning glory

planting dandelions

next to oxalis

–in all 9 yards I saw.

Mossy Me


 
Unable to

commit to a Rock,

I picked me up a Pebble

Half the work of Rock
 
 
 
 
I pet it less for one

–which might account for

the fact it remains amorphous

when Rock took on a heart-shape after

a few

(dozen)

years

Pebble skips better, too, I’ve found

tossed from hard place

out to sea

–it breaches

like a teeny-tiny whale

hitting wave

after wave

)) after wave ))

its return concerns me less

then Rock

since I stroll a Gravel Strand

Pebble is grittier, too, by far,

scratching hands

to callous, and wearing

pocket thin

Pebble never trumps my

Pinking Shears,

or rounds out any paper,

skittering in

its role as pet,

I’ll have to

leave it

lie

(in time)

in Hour Glass that keeps

upending

eroding Pebbles

made of yore.

 

pet rock owner’s manual