ㅁ The power went out. I sat at work in the dark. Watched the parking lot.
– a pseudo-haiku.
ㅁ Some ducks at the dock... I'm not sure what they're up to. They're making ripples.
– a pseudo-haiku.
ㅁ The sun put in a dawn appearance, but by eight the clouds had returned. The illumination fades, and it becomes diffuse. The trees accept gloom, and meditate on purpose, on sky, earth.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ The dream was an intractable bog. I was working on a cruise ship. There were events for seniors. I spotted someone nearby - my stepmother's face. Then she was gone. A woman told me jokes.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ Birds announce attitudes with their strange songs. It's enough to wake you up each morning.
– a tetractys.
ㅁ Darn. Woke up, feeling pleased, poem ready! But then I forgot to write it down. Sad.
– a tetractys.
ㅁ Ducks, afloat, biding time, awaiting peers... then they can all swim to the other side.
– a tetractys.
ㅁ Once, driving across North Dakota, I crashed into a butterfly. At the time I didn't know, but later, stopped for gas, its beautiful corpse hung there limply: the bumper gave it rest.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ The clouds duly presented themselves for our cursory inspection. Their shapes and colors and lines manifested, dreamlike: a painterly view, as if brushstrokes had been drawn across air.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ The seagull sat, fat and round and white, as if a short break from eating might perhaps be justified; perched on the metal arch over the wood dock, watching the world, witnessing sun, sea, trees.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ The road inspired negativity: those potholes cruelly covered by hubristic gravel loads, spread by excavators and dim road graders, up and down slopes... the buried potholes wait.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ The moon's disk peered down through the trees, lapping at their ragged branches, like an over-eager dog. A wind shifted the trees; the moonshadows danced and drew patterns on the wall. So I watched.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ Hearing the birds begin their strange songs outside my lair's attic window, heralding an early spring, I'm filled only with dread. Spring is not my thing. The elderly awaken... impose tasks.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ The road was long, the sun did shine, it seemed spring had arrived. He sat to rest beside the road, surprised he had survived.
– a quatrain in ballad meter.
ㅁ Apropos yesterday's reflection: Arthur and I skyped with my mom. "You doing anything fun?" she asked him, just to talk. His answer: "Not yet." Seventy-nine... maybe time to have fun.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ Living with Arthur and maintaining any peace of mind is quite hard. These days, he's like his father: obdurate resentment and pessimism, unwavering, flavored with false cheer.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ Like a simile, these words have a role to play, but no one hears them.
– a pseudo-haiku. This is one of those rare daily poems that essentially appeared in my mind already fully-formed at my moment of awaking.
ㅁ The temporary glacier out there, made of snow and ice and chilled mud, is gradually unmade by the visitations of churlish raindrops, by the mad gusts of dumb wind. The yard clears...
– a nonnet.
ㅁ down the steps snow-laden to the hollow with fallen branches where the treehouse stairway provides access to the space damp with the rain and melting snow suspended there among greenery
– a reverse nonnet.
ㅁ the atmosphere teems with sadnesses exhaled by all the aimless ghosts that populate the margins of our bland perceptions but when confronted fade right away like vapor rising up
– a nonnet.