Pocket Lament

Pockets,
Oh,
Pockets,
Why are you
Always given
Over to the males?
Here we,
Such genteel
Females
Are bound
By weight of
Purses!
Maybe some
Manmade
Pleasure done
To encumber
Us in some
Kind, way,
For Lord knows
What might occur
Were both our
Hands empowered.
Even enlightened
As these times are
One may not
Depend on
Fashion,
For pockets can
Be often false,
Others too
Small
To carry
Much.
Designers could
Give
Consideration
To cost
Of female
Liberty lost.

Murderous?

Why step on the bug,
Out here on the sidewalk paved
With the intention
Of leading us place to place –
No obstacles in our way?

The bug is minute,
It barely forces a step
Aside the margin
Leaving the path to follow –
If we are daring enough.

Why is the bug here?
Is the memory hidden,
Of the fear once known,
When the world was wilderness –
With doubt explored, overcome?

How are we now grown,
That the innocent insect
Raises our instinct
To kill, destroy, and conquer –
When victorious – we are?

Found superior,
How are we very challenged
By creatures beyond
Our overwhelming control –
Are we from nature estranged?

The bug is wonder –
For it continues, exists,
Outside reckoning
To eliminate its life –
Clinging loosely, it persists.

Prompt: Reach for a subject that touches you differently.

Haiku Niner

Prompt: If you are not using a journal each day, I challenge you to begin. Many remarkable things happen within the pages of a journal.

Shuffling

Who am I? No one,
A dreamer with unfulfilled
Dreams, bursting the seams.

Tears threaten to throw,
All the plans, carefully made,
Into fading shade.

Capricious Elocution

I think I write
But sometimes it seems
The words write me,
Searching out my heart, soul,
Tearing me to shreds, making whole.
Words are precious existence,
Love distilled for meaning –
Making clear the gleaning
Of was, is, will be
In almost captured dreams;
Streams laden with hope –
Wild flames catching time
Setting sentences to rhyme,
Only tell, what is the line,
Am I it, or is it mine?

Looking at how writing works, I often find that it is a mystery no matter how I study. I thought one day I would understand, but I suppose the state is unmeant for me.

The truth is I cannot put it aside even when I am confused by the gift. Writing is heart, soul, consolation for the pains and troubles. Forever Friend!

Haiku – Five

I.
The sun rises warm
As the tenderest embrace,
Lighting love shared sweet.

II.
Swift flows the current
Of true love’s passion unleashed,
Crows waiting on wire.

III.
The book, when borrowed,
Does not have fullest effect,
Mountains soar abroad.

IV.
What is seen is not
The most of all, everything,
Oceans fully course.

V.
Waves sweep over sand
Wearing away hardest rock,
Singing never stops.