haikuish or shortish, 3

walking on water
          try it and you get wet socks...
then comes the laundry

haikuish or shortish, 2

clear night sky
     our breaths rise
          to the thousand wishes
          burning overhead

throwaway poetry project, 6

i watch my children play in snow

it's wondrous stuff,
and beautiful,
with a weight
and the white
that lies right on the
dead earth.
they throw it up
over their heads
and let it come down
all around them.
they twirl in the flakes.
rediscovering each other,
they launch an assault,
the soft balls
falling from their bodies,
indistinguishable
on the drifts.
tiring of this,
they decide
to create
a man,
rolling up the parts,
and fashioning him
just exactly
the same
as them.
they come in from the snow
triumphant.
they watch over the man
through the windows,
all smiles
and red cheeks.
under the moon
i see him relax
back into the
white blanket,
loosing the parts
and stretching out,
indistinguishable
on the ground.

throwaway poetry project, 5

when writing an old-fashioned poem,

if you need to rhyme something with "orange,"

don't fret!  it's not true!

there's a word you can use!

there's a part of a plant called a "sporange!"

in similar cases of stymied poetics,

there's something for "purple's" defeating phonetics!

a word from the Scots,

it describes the lame hops

of one injured in rowdy athletics.

sporange:  

1. In botany, the case or sac in plants in which the spores, which are equivalent to the seeds of flowering plants, are produced or carried. Also sporangium.© The Philip Lief Group Inc.

hurple:

1. (Scottish) An impediment similar to a limp.-- Wiktionary
*note: does not pertain only to limps resulting from athletic injuries - ha

throwaway poetry project, 4

"my body is all eyes!"
and i know the god
of you

when they close
i tell myself there's
god there, too


*quote: Eliade's Shamanism (290), from an Inuit shaman's song

throwaway poetry project, 3

new post!
true post.
a blog
of logs,
cut through
rings of things
already past.
a mess of holes,
thirty-six poles,
it's an unfinished fence
leading nowhere fast,
charting only the bounds
of a soul territory --
the flags of times
lived in a single
life story.

throwaway poetry project, 2

zounds!
the hounds sound
hollow 'cross the heather.
walking there 'neath
violet clouds, swearing
violent weather,
a wind sends my cap
aloft and down, tipping
in a puddle.
tripping after o'er
the grassy mounds, my
fingers drip a wet hat red –
and strewth! there by my cap
i found blue figures in
the slipp'ry mud!
'sblood!

throwaway poetry project, 1

grass all yellow dry,
old and brittle,
folded, the kindled
flame dancing
Shiva for a fresh
earth, ash and
dirt, new shoot
cradle pinned in
old world vintage
photographs --
dead grass,
resurrected,
laughs