Haiku

In my opinion the haiku is both the simplest and most complex of poems.  If a haiku does not leave the reader crippled, then it has not succeeded.  Please comment on the following poem.  If you have not been left speechless, then you have not been adequately touched.

Upon falcon’s wing,
Crisp silence splits the senses,
Leaving one’s sight pure.

Please be brutally honest about your opinion of this poem.  A haiku leaves no room for error.

– Author’s Note –

I may or may not have had a couple of drinks before posting this message late last night.  That could explain why the surrounding text is a little dramatic.  Here is another Haiku, written in the cold light of day after a couple of Tylenols…

Succulent mind games,
Create the perfect storm, that
Echoes evermore.

I wonder which you will like more… Sober Haiku, or Drunken Haiku?

Advertisements

The Warbler’s Song

As summer sweetly burns the hours,
The morning’s dew will heal our pain.
Not oft the bee forgets the flowers,
Nor sun forgets to dry the rain.

Stilled by the echo of the ghost,
Chilled by the winds beneath our wing,
We have tomorrow at the most,
We have today to feel the sting.

Can you imagine moving past,
The hours that hover through the air?
Can you discern the trumpet’s blast,
That tolls the end to nature’s prayer?

With winter clawing at our backs,
The Guardian presses close at hand,
The mourning lark lets drop the axe,
The timid song turns from the land.

The Dryad of Terranür – Part 1

The rain fell heavy against her leaves, tracing its way down her coarse branches in thin rivulets.  The water calmed her, eased her aching joints as it flowed between the cracks in her ancient bark, moving ever closer to the earth.  Always towards the earth, pulling the dust of many ages down with it.

The dryad let out a deep sigh, startling the dozing warblers in her canopy.  The sound was more of a creaking; a great release of pent up energy.  Her head hung low today, heavy with the rainwater that coated her thick mane of greenery.  But this was not all that caused the ancient woman of the forest to droop.  The knowledge of what was to come also weighed upon her like a drenched woolen blanket.

The days of mirth would soon be at an end.  She was getting old.  Too old to count.  Too old to remember.  She had seen many generations of ironwoods come and go.  She had seen the maple saplings grow a hundred feet before finally cracking in half, only to watch the entire precession over again.  Her roots had penetrated deep into the earth, cracking boulder and limestone in search of drink.

But now the time of mirth would soon come to a close.  These were dreadful days.  Terrifying days ahead.

As the clouds began to relent and the pounding of the rain became exhausted, the dryad was left to ponder her next course of action as her leaves dripped rhythmically upon the forest floor.  The forest of Terranür was ancient, far older even than the dryad.  The debris that lay damp at her feet had witnessed countless dryads come and go as it pilled ever higher.  She was not the first of her kind, that much was certain.  What was uncertain was whether or not she would be the last.

The sun poked its head out at that moment and bathed her foliage in life.  Washed her skin in warmth and kindness, igniting the fire within her core.  She could not postpone any longer.  With the rays of sunshine came the strength to perform her final act upon this earth.

She knew exactly what must be done, but that did not make the task any easier.  With a massive stretch, she shook the remaining raindrops from her leaves, straightened her aching trunk and blinked open her sepia eyes.  These wet, sad eyes had seen countless springs, witnessed untold seasons, but today they focused upon something new.  Something unsettling.  As she looked from the forest floor towards the azure sky above, the dryad could see the plumes of acrid smoke rising in the south.

This was not the smoke of any fire she was familiar with.  While it was true that other trees feared the flames which came racing through the night to extinguish all life in the forest, the dryad of Terranür had witnessed them many times before.  She had seen her friends eradicated by the will of Chênoras, the Undoer, and had survived to tell the tale.  But this new smoke, waving like a black standard above the canopy, these fumes made the dryad shudder.

This was no smog produced by nature.  This was the fire of industry.

Unable to bear it any longer, the dryad lowered her eyes and called out for the Guardian.

Unspeakably loud, the tremulous call of the dryad split the serene forest air, penetrating even the deepest, darkest corners of Terranür.  It was the sound of a hundred tree trunks splitting asunder.  The sound of a thousand root clusters being ripped from the ground.  It was the sound of a forest dying.

The Guardian would not be able to ignore the dryad’s languished call.  Patience was all that remained to her now.  Soon enough the Guardian of the forest would arrive and the dryad of Terranür would be at peace.

It was not long after her mournful cry that the warbler began to sing.  As if feeling the pain of his host, he began quite softly.

As summer sweetly burns the hours,
The morning’s dew will heal our pain.
Not oft the bee forgets the flowers,
Nor sun forgets to dry the rain.

Stilled by the echo of the ghost,
Chilled by the winds beneath our wing,
We have tomorrow at the most,
We have today to feel the sting.

Can you imagine moving past,
The hours that hover through the air?
Can you discern the trumpet’s blast,
That tolls the end to nature’s prayer?

With winter clawing at our backs,
The Guardian presses close at hand,
The mourning lark lets drop the axe,
The timid song turns from the land.

The dryad let but a single tear fall from her round eyes.  She would not be defeated just yet.  With the Guardian came hope.  The forests must survive.

To be continued…

Please take the time to comment on this piece if you enjoyed it. I am hoping to perfect my art and wish to use this blog to receive feedback on the style and substance of the narrative. Any constructive criticisms or editing comments will be appreciated and considered. Eventually, I hope to have a novel published based on the world seen in these short stories.  Thanks in advance for your help with this!

Roll Back the Curtain

Three stories,
Performed in sequence,
Bathed in moonlight,
Intriguing no one.

A young harp,
Carved of ash,
Polished smartly,
Left to rot.

The mummer’s maiden,
Seen from stage right,
Dreams of silver,
Ashamed to sing.

A world grown colder,
Her eyes turned down,
Believes in nothing,
Smiles alone.

When did this happen,
Who gave the order,
Where was the poet,
What let us down?

The babes of springtime,
Deceived by autumn,
Roll back the curtain,
Unveil the scene.

For all that’s certain,
Is come tomorrow,
And all that’s hollow,
Today abounds.

Drop of Water

The droplet hangs a moment,
Collecting courage,
Mustering strength,
Preparing for its descent.

Hovering at the tip of the golden leaf,
It gathers itself together,
Ready to take the plunge,
Willing to engage what lays below.

The tension broken,
A sturdy platform left to dry alone,
Our swirling mass hangs but a moment longer,
Waiting for the earth to rise in response.

Slowly twisting through space,
Our sphere of molten humidity,
Unraveling a secret story,
Somersaulting a voiceless song.

It cannot fall forever,
This troupe of collected dews,
Despite the lethargic tumbling,
Soon must brace itself.

For that which lays below,
Will not be parted,
Can not be negotiated with,
Must stand true.

And with that thought,
In such a cataclysmic instant,
The droplet finds its mark,
Shape swiftly eradicated.

Striking the bridge of her nose,
Splashing in all directions,
Finding purchase upon her cheek,
The gallant unit is dispersed.

Its secret story quickly silenced,
With the flick of her wrist,
Our droplet wiped away,
Scattered to the wind once more.

Love

Love is,
but a whisper,
but a whimper,
but a word,

But a sequence,
but a cycle,
but a series,
but a chord,

But a moment,
but an instant,
but a second,
but a spell,

But a teacher,
but a student,
but a mentor,
but a hell.

Love is,
found tomorrow,
found today,
forever more,

Is a heartache,
is a serpent,
is a headache,
is a whore.

Love is,
but a perfume,
but a fragrance,
but a smell,

But a turmoil,
but a battle,
but a conflict,
but a cell.

Love is,
contraceptives,
so subjective,
thoughts abound,

So elusive,
so conducive,
so conclusive,
does confound.

Yet the silence,
met by violence,
does deceive,
the mortal soul,

In the morning,
comes the warning,
what was halved,
can now be whole.

Love is,
Perfect,
Love is,
Simple,

Love is,
Tempting,
Love is,
Fine.

Love is,
Awesome,
Love is,
Terror,

Love is,
Special,
Love is,
Mine.