SOAKED!

This is a haibun for Dverse Poets – today the theme is water…

I stand on the corner, waiting for the bus, rain or shine.  Today it has been raining all night and I have to skip around the puddles as I cross the road.  The trucks rumble past, wipers flashing, and hissing of tires as they go.  Without warning, one takes a sudden swerve towards the kerb where a large pool of water has gathered.  Suddenly I am inundated, soaked from head to toe.  The driver flashes me a triumphant smile before I squelch back home to change…

truckers
always a joker
in the pack

Photo by Wayne Ray – Own work, Public Domain, Wikimedia

CORNY

A response to D’verse poets to write something that ignores the rules of grammar – so freeing…

out leaving full stops
over easy but commonly needing
mixed metaphors on
a coloured background
gives words summer sun
and mills winds
on blown hills
there rabbits run fastly
in blue ocean deep
and sucked in wind
where climbing is steep
so grows the corn

(Van Gogh’s View From the Wheat field)

THE JOY OF IMPERFECTION

for dVerse Poets

We have a smaller garden now that is far from perfect.  Gardening here is fraught with peril.  We plant seedlings, only to have them immediately dug up by the neighbourhood cats.  We have tried everything – cat repellent, cayenne pepper, bark chips, rocks – you name it!  Unfortunately it seems that many of our cat-owning neighbours are not much into gardens, so ours becomes a magnet for cats seeking easy digging.  Consequently there seem to be more rocks than plants in our garden.

We also have an old, rusted corrugated iron fence that most would call ugly, but the textures on it fascinate me.  And the plainest of plants have a beauty of their own, casting green shadows in the evening.

beauty
not always in the eye
of the beholder

FINGER OF GOD (for D’Verse poets)

In response to a challenge from D’verse Poets to use verbs in unexpected contexts – not sure if I’ve managed…

searches
the finger of God
pulses my heart

reaches down to the earth
heaves the sod beyond the river
rings the end of time

and my gaunt face
reflects the burning of coals
spits the fire hardly

missing that mark
until fire sears my soul
into purity

RIVER CROSSINGS for dVerse poets

Crossing the Dargaville Bridge over the Northern Wairoa River on a misty morning is an act of faith.  From the middle of the bridge onwards there is nothing but damp cloud, and one can never be sure whether the road actually does carry on to the far bank.  Then there are the reflections beneath that seem to point to some subterranean city, populated at the very least by mermaids, and possibly pirates.   As always, it lends some excitement to our journey.

illusions
of solidarity
fading

bridge

(apologies – I couldn’t seem to get past another haibun – maybe next time)