ㅁ Thursdays: into town, do some shopping, run errands - the week's adventure.
– a pseudo-haiku.
ㅁ The reasons we do things remain inscrutable, our thoughts spin, running rings, with motivations dull and grayish clouds that drift within their bony domes; while outside visions lift away the seething foams of seas that beat and thrash against perceptions, so at last a tiny cache of meaning falls like snow which leaves a pallid face which tilts up into space.
– a sonnet in iambic trimeter.
ㅁ The raindrops fall, suggest, and ruminate on wood, on steel, as if possessed, as if their tapping could interpret sweeping time or render grasping trees immobilized; their rhyme, their syncopated tease of meanings never found - unfindable besides - just apophenic sound and rhythm that just slides all down the edges till the world dissolves its will.
– a sonnet in iambic trimeter.
ㅁ The rain will take a pause, a surging tide will rise, and thus the dawn's chill cause unfolds to draw my eyes. Two seagulls squat below upon the dock's damp wood, their wings their feathers throw: a raucous talk is good. Across the water, clouds embrace the looming trees: a hillside's worth, like shrouds of purple filigrees. The sky collects its light then, tossing motes of white.
– a sonnet in iambic trimeter.
ㅁ A single small shrub, leaves burned red by the season, railed against the storm.
– a pseudo-haiku.
ㅁ wind offers no solace but draws you in with only gestures made all indirectly swinging rain and damp branches abnegating the dawn's dull clouds in a perennial cunctation
– a reverse nonnet.
ㅁ A DMV Ode Waiting is a kind of hard training. Yet it requires nothing active. One simply should still the mind. Those spinning thoughts hinder. One can look outside. There's a nice view. One sees trees. Rain falls. Wait.
– a pseudo-haiku.
ㅁ Perceptions of the natural world weave patterns through the interstices of our tightly folded brains, gathering the damp duff fallen from time's trees scattered around like a sea: broken leaves.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ Clouds: They drift, Dislike wind, Try to travel, Contemplate treetops, Interpolate movements... Okay, they exploit the wind, And resist enough to survive, Refusing debate, remaining clouds.
– a reverse nonnet.
ㅁ On the edge of cold, the damp moss floats on the stones; a puff of breath fades.
– a pseudo-haiku.
ㅁ From the sky, the clouds descend, fragmented, sun absented, winds portend rainy end.
– an englyn of some kind.
ㅁ Let's look down in this river for food. The water is flowing swiftly. There are a lot of dead fish. We can speak to our friends. Tilt heads at the sun. Taste the autumn. Spread our wings. Dive down. Caw.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ The neighbors have chickens and roosters. It lends a domesticity to this Alaskan outpost. My uncle disapproves. They're too civilized. I don't mind them. Morning crows bring up tides.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ I sleep on the floor, as I've always. Maybe it's camping memories? It's a strange pattern, I know. Is it simplicity? Asceticism? Connection to unyielding, spinning, earth?
– a nonnet.
ㅁ Before morning's light chill darkness laps at the walls; you can hear the water.
– a pseudo-haiku.
ㅁ A bird hops along... The logging slash, like driftwood: White bones of progress.
– a pseudo-haiku.
ㅁ Tree. Raven. Looking down. There, on the road . Those primates again. So speak a word to them. Suggest a course of action. Paint a universe without signs. No? Then nevermind, I'll fly away.
– a nonnet.