A 5 Haiku Time Block

Alarm going off,
time to get up, start the day.
When will you return?

Look at the planner.
Places to be, things to see.
Have a sec to talk?

Running here and there.
Checking phone, watch, calendar.
No time for talking.

9 to 5, long drive,
clubs and sports, late practice time.
Not in time to dine.

Clock in the tower,
on the wall, phone, digital
ticking life away.

PC: Jon Tyson via Unsplash

Family and Home

The floor boards groan under the weight of time,
and the walls whisper tales of days now past.
Porch-bells are heard, winds carrying their chime.
Wallpaper fades, but memory paint lasts.

Under this roof a family once slept.
Children once played in the grasses that grew,
at night, in their beds, they peacefully dreamt
of the love, the joy, they blissfully knew.

Now this house stands in a state of decay.
Its windows are cracked, its roof has a leak.
Parents aren’t sleeping, no children at play.
But if you listen you’ll hear the walls speak,

of the people who walked all through its halls,
and what changed when all of the kids grew tall.

PC: Clark Young via Unsplash

In the Kitchen

I remember the crowded space,

the clanging of trays and plates.

The people bustling by,

A case of serve or die.

I remember how the supply

Of soup containers dwindled,

And the box, sitting up high,

Holding the needed utensils.

I remember how I could not reach,

And tried to ask for help.

I remember I had to climb

High up on the self.

I remember stretching far,

And reaching to the sky.

I slowly slide the box toward me,

When suddenly,

I remember below my waist

I felt a tightening grip.

I remember my pounding heart,

As from my hands the box began to slip

I remember my sweating palms,

And my balance almost lost.

I remember the spinning room,

As I tried climbing down,

I remember turning swift,

To take a look around.

I remember the ally full,

With no one standing near.

But most of all what I remember,

Is the ever gnawing fear.

And now when I reach for boxes high,

Or climb up on a shelf,

I remember to watch for hands,

That grope about with stealth.

PC: Kenny Luo via unsplash

In Too Deep

There is peace found with the river,
There is treachery too.
The water rushes and you shiver,
Then it stills into a pool.

And you watch the up and down.
And you fear the push and pull,
‘cause you think that you may drown,
‘cause you know you are a fool.

You’re a fool to stillness, fool to peace.
Looking at the surface, standing on the edge,
blind to its secrets, buried too deep.
So through the muck you try to trudge,

But it bubbles up in anger, and
crashes against the shore, and
you run from the danger, and
you fear it’s raging roar, and

when you’ve gone a distance
the water stills and calms.
You may wade without resistance,
In the shallows of the pond.

How? Well . . .

How can I write?
How can I write well,
when I have yet to live,
to break out of my shell?

How can I live?
How can I live well,
when I have yet to think,
to learn for myself?

How can I think?
How can I think well,
when I have yet to feel,
to let my heart swell?

How can I feel?
How can I feel well,
when I have yet to dream,
to discover new realms?

How can I dream?
How can I dream well,
when I have yet to write,
to pen out a tale?

Dance Flower, Dance!

The young flower laughs in the sun,
blossoming for all to see.
Playfully its petals fly, dancing
as the wind plays a beckoning tune.

The young flower sighs in the clouds,
blossoming, but no one sees.
Its petal falls slowly to the ground, for
the wind plays no song; it can’t dance around.

The young flower cries in the rain,
blossoming, its petals droop for all to see.
Petal cling tightly to shield the naked flower,
as wind blows harshly, to make the flower dance.

The young flower shivers in the snow,
It’s blossoms have all been blown away.
Naked in the wind it tries to sway,
As the winds song tauntingly plays.

Art’s God

Art speaks loud and clear,
begging you its voice to hear.
A picture says a thousand words.
A poem speaks undeterred.
All artists have tools and tales,
but messages from the heart don’t fail.

A painting may tell of gods above.
A poem may rhyme of gods below.
A picture may capture gods of love.
A melody may sing gods of sorrow.
A dance may point to gods of war.
A film may direct one god or more.

Each artist must think long, hard, and well
about the gods of which they tell.
As one who has chosen a God and an art
I’ll issue a warning to those at their start:
Be careful the story of gods you relay
Or you’ll answer to someone for those led astray.

Fountains of Faith

People flocked to the fountain and its cooling spray.
Its bubbling spring with no detectable source,
was something within her that sprang forth,
calming the masses and offering hope.

She knew of the river the flowed within her,
encouraging, demanding, loving, but stern.
The sound of the river offered her peace
and people were comforted by her serene face.

Abundantly joyful, unbreakably strong
her presence could make days less hard, less long.
She was loved and hated by those in her mist,
but the river always flowed and the fountain had no rest.

So the monument stands, effervescent with hope.
The people, they flock, for its source do they grope.
The fountains a guide to the river that flows,
in each person it touches a bubbling spring grows.

Worker Bees

There’s something buzzing by my head.

It’s the requests of all my friend bees.

They gather nectar for themselves,

Forsaking duties to queen and hive.

They steal the nectar and then run free

demanding both silence and help from me.

Each thieving bee thinks he or she is queen,

but each hive can only have ine queen bee.

What does it take to be queen bee?

If you are just conniving and cruel

do you think other bees will follow you?

Or will worker bees follow the hardest worker?