Delicious

You are delicious,
a delectable darling.
I could eat you up. 

Written for The Haiku Challenge 2012 - Day 26 – February 26th – Theme: Paint the Image
Inspirational Image from: Google Images, Author: Unknown

Alive to hope

Living means release
of your past, your history,
so your dreams can breathe.


Be alive to hope
and grieve not for days of yore.
Invent a new life.






Written for The Haiku Challenge 2012 - Day 20 – February 20th – Quote: Live out of your imagination, not your history

Someone to see

We wait, him and I
but for what I do not know -
someone to see us.

Written for The Haiku Challenge 2012 - Day 17 – February 17th – Theme or Word: Wait + Paint the Image
Inspirational Image Clicked by Anand of: Apple Blossom's Photography

Death

So, I’ve been thinking about death,
                    the ripping of it
and how, natural as it is,
                               it doesn’t feel right.

But what is right?
         And who am I
to know, to say, to judge?

The part of every story that we hate.
The words mixed up, the prose awkward
                                              and we always want a different ending.


                                                 And I’ve been thinking that departure can feel
                                                                                                                like attack
or like a rapid current in the agony of life’s ebbing river.
            About how the oscitance of passage
                                                      pulls in, too, the protesting pieces
                                                                      of those left behind.so we’re
                                                                              each time a little less
whole. 


Yes, the gateway
yawns, lazy-like and shards of our
glass hearts fly in with the summoned. 


                                           Maybe they’re collected, those bits, constructed anew
and returned.
But I don’t know. 


Immanent, Innate, born to die.  To live.
                           But still.

Death
declares her will, her time and we gape (each time) in shock. 
              How dare she?
                            She advances with a vow.
                                                             We retreat, denying.

The sum and substance in the end so brief and we realize we’ve only skimmed.
             And who or what is there to loathe when life at last is finished?
                No.  Bitterness is for those here and we alienate ourselves from the inevitable
                                                               and from love, which is all we really have.
                                                                       Our reflections,
baseless
because mocking death travels with a mixed bag and we want
                                                                                       nice and tidy.
Who can handle the profundity of the commonplace fact of finality, the rhymeless,
                                   unpoetical and unrehearsed tragedy when all
                                               along we’ve begged for clowns.

                                                                                          So, now,
fumbling, we place  flowers (which, too, will die) by words engraved, words,
                                    too few.

                                                   Our hearts, raw, ache, incompetent to
beat alone within the poverty of our existence.
                 We become
                       beggars who know not anymore what we
                                      want- more or less?

                                                     Though distinct in details, death is not diverse.
But still, I feel my words to be like death, an interrupted sequence.
             I have no lines to close with.






submitting at dverse

No idea

The day you were born

I had no idea I would

become new myself.

Written for The Haiku Challenge 2012 - Day 10 – February 10th – Theme: Write a Haiku describing about a Special day in your life...

keeper of keys

Enigma abounds.
Who can unlock the mystery?
The Keeper of Keys.

Written for The Haiku Challenge 2012 - Day 9 – February 9th – Theme: Paint the Image
Photo Clicked by Siva of: Siva's Art Work

Death becomes divine

Hands frozen in time, only here.
                       There,
                       they move, made new.
                                                    What all you lacked in earthly moments, there you      
                                                                                           hold.
                                                                                                   The glimmering
                                                                                                         gift of wisdom, love, lustrous.


We see only this: hands
                           held high,
asking
answer, pleading, help.
Frozen.
But death becomes divine and you have received.
Transference to abundance.
   A heritage of worth,
         endowed with glory we can not
                                 yet envision,
                                       Enlightened, finally.  Given sight.
Hands, Heaven directed have reached their goal, wooed by illumination,
captivated with splendor.


                We weep not for you.


What is a poet? An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like beautiful music.
-Kierkegaard


submission for Magpie Tales