The dead raccoon

The dead raccoon

I’ve been talking to the crows.
They don’t really listen.
They just cock their heads and give me the eye –
And then they begin to caw,
All of them right over my head as if…
As if I have nothing important to say.
I tell them about the dead raccoon
I discovered on our walkway this morning.
I steel myself as I go get the shovel from the garage
and begin to try to shove it up under the raccoon.
The raccoon is stiff and falls from the shovel.
I talk to the crows telling them about
the hard time I am having.
They continue to walk about the yard –
ignoring me.
Give me a break, I mutter.
Please. Somebody, give me a break.
Nobody listens as I carry it across the yard
as it falls from the shovel – several times.
At one point I begin to whimper,
Pleasepleasepleaseplease.
I don’t know why this dead raccoon
has upset me so badly.
My husband at work told me to grab
a shovel and throw it in the woods.
My best friend called me from Tennessee
and told me to grab a shovel
and throw it in the woods.
The crows follow behind me
or skip in front of me on the way to the woods.
I finally reach the woods and
dump the raccoon onto the ground.
I turn but then….
Visions of those murdered children
pop into my head.
I begin to dig.
As I dig, I talk to my friend
the Old Oak.
He is silent.
I begin to dig.
Why me? I whimper.
Why those kids? I weep.
Nobody listens.
Nobody cares.
I tamp the earth down over the raccoon
and place several rocks
on the grave.
The crows fly away
still ignoring me.

For Kerry’s Prompt at Real Toads – a one-sided conversation, written for a silent and even disinterested audience, because poetry is an aspect of individual creativity that goes beyond literary appreciation or criticism.

Cedars

a gogyoshi for Open Link Night at dVerse. A gogyoshi has five lines like a cinquain or tanka. However – that is the only “rule” for this Japanese poetic form. No syllable count, no rhyme or rhythm required. Exactly five lines, any style.

Cedars
cedars in the meadow
lined up in a row –
all is silent in the snow
except for the lonely call
of a crow.

Cedar – Ansel Adams 1956

Sunrise on Mt. Fuji

Today at dVerse, Paul is the Pubtender. He is prompting us to write on “drunkenness”.

Sunrise on Mt. Fuji
On Mt. Fuji’s summit
the air is thin.
The water in my bottle is warm –
as it goes down my throat –
pure nectar!
The sun begins to rise.
I become drunk on the sun –
peace settles in my soul.

Haibun: The Grey

Haibun Monday at dVerse.  Bjorn is our host and enjoins us to think of grey.

The Grey
I am a porch sitter from ‘way back. I sit on the steps of our back porch in all weathers and watch the night. The last full moon was bright. The light changed the world into shades from ash to argent – trees were blacker shapes against the black starry sky and the lawn was palest silver. An old photograph it looked to be. I walked around the yard clothed in grey – the dark grey shrubs, the light silver of dried grass, the middle tones of my skin. The whole world had been transformed into grey by the magic of the moonlight.

I went back to the steps and sat. The frost glittered in the moonlight like faceted hematite. Stretching out under the moon like a grey tabby cat, the lawn flexed and flowed down to the woods. As I watched this silent grey night, from the old potting shed came a small black and white cat followed by two young kittens. I held my breath and watched them go the plate where I had earlier placed food. They didn’t notice me at all, silent and still. I watched as they ate their fill and then returned to the potting shed. A bit later, a red fox crossed the yard at a trot, intent upon his own business looking neither to the right or left of him. The grey holds so many secrets. I get to watch them all unfold – like an old silent movie. When dawn began to come, the world was transformed into lighter grey – everything the same color. I stood up stiffly and went back into the house to awake my husband for work. The inside of the house was warm. The lace curtains in the bedroom changed into a solid sheet of grey, the patterns of the lace growing together. My husband’s face was still and calm, deep into sleep. I gently touched him to awaken him. In the grey pre-dawn, he pulled the quilt over his head and went back to sleep.
grey of winter night –
the moon changes all the dross
into purest silver

stock photo

Gold Day

For Rommy’s prompt at Real Toads – Love hurts

Gold Day
the afternoon you left
was a golden roux of fading autumn sunlight,
spicy oak leaves –
bright yellow, still holding on to the tree,
not yet ready to fall,
and bitter salt tears –
like the oak leaves – refusing to fall,
refusing to join the earlier faded maple leaves on the lawn.
under the trees, quiet and still,
I allow the knowledge of your leaving to permeate my being.
I am still breathing.
My heart is still beating.
The sky is still ethereal blue with purest white autumn clouds
wafting their way to the end of the horizon –
Starlings lift from the telephone wires to follow the clouds –
I realize, I will continue on my way –
leaves will change color and fall,
snow will cover the sepia winter landscape –
cherry blossoms will bud, bloom, and fade –
trees will leaf in explosions of green,
leaves will change color and fall –
Seasons and things will pass.
inside, my soul says “Oh!”
I sit as the gold day ends –
early leaf burning –
its incense drifts to heaven
autumn’s voice whispers.

Haiku: White Wisteria.

Today Frank hosts the dVerse Poets Pub. He is asking for brevity as in Japanese poetic forms of haiku and tanka. All haiku must have a seasonal reference (kigo) but not necessarily a syllable count of 5-7-5. Haiku and tanka are not given titles. If it does not have a seasonal reference, it is a senryu.

 

white wisteria –
ghosts in the trees weeping with
the misty spring rain

 

woodblock by Kono Bairei 1844-1895

Words Fail

 

For Poet’s United, Midweek Motif.  Sumana has the prompt which is words.

Words Fail

“Actions speak louder than words” – old proverb

Words –
A poor way to communicate.
How often words are taken amiss –
to cause anger, make glad, cause tears,
a different language sounds like gibberish –
reduce one to helpless snorts and guffaws.

the touch of a gentle hand upon one’s shoulder
a smile, a frown, the rolling of the eyes,
lips pursed or a blush –
the wind through the trees
the soft peep of peepers down at the creek
on a warm summer night
or the hooting of an owl
in a crystal night with a sky full of stars
in the depths of a cold winter night…
the things that speak to the soul
rather than to the ears –
Words.
Words can fail.

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