ㅁ Lately I hate life. I feel nothing anymore. Why do I bother?
– a pseudo-haiku.
ㅁ I made secret, unknowable poems. Crafted with pure banalities, they occupied remote screens, distant from daily life. These were words for fate: disquisitions against time; perfect rants.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ rain came this weekend filled the downhill-rushing creeks turned over some stones
– a pseudo-haiku.
ㅁ The otherworld unleashed its dogs; they chased us through the timeless trees. We fled and jumped those ancient logs. The otherworld unleashed its dogs. We fell and tasted moss and bogs. The murky water grasped our knees. The otherworld unleashed its dogs; they chased us through the timeless trees.
– a triolet.
ㅁ I dreamed that Arthur became possessed by some remodeling demon. So while I was gone at work, He began adding things - random additions - to his odd house: stray basements, towers, leaks.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ Banality is worthy stuff: it centers things, and pulls the fringes back from fevered dreams, it moderates the fools.
– a quatrain in ballad meter.
ㅁ Wind rushed through, bashed the walls of our building. The structure creaked like an old sailing ship.
– a tetractys.
ㅁ Kiamon never could disregard signs showing conspiracies, visable lines, tracing connections between sundry groups. Gazing at traffic, she pondered these loops.
– a quatrain in a dactylic tetrameter. A nonsequential snapshot into a fictional being’s life.
ㅁ I try to think about my brain, but thing comes to mind, it seems. Perception stops outside, it's plain. I try to think about my brain. The soul and body split in twain. A language rules inside, in streams. I try to think about my brain, but thing comes to mind, it seems.
– a triolet.
ㅁ Last night, driving home I noticed the sun setting out over the sea.
– a pseudo-haiku. (The “62 Pit” is an actual place-name in my town.)
ㅁ The mornings are dark again these days. I nurse my coffee at my desk, the window just a black frame. Daylight has retreated. Fragments of rain tap. A truck trundles. Seagulls cry. Moments pass.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ Like craters on the moon raindrops appear on the car's windshield like a map of moments a distribution of dreams with patterns instantly erased by the laconic windshield wipers.
– a reverse nonnet.
ㅁ the treehouse hung. the tappings of the rain: a safe sound, plain, cloud-drainings, wet branches' world worshippings.
– an englyn penfyr.
ㅁ The summer's nearly ended: yay. I'm glad when summer's mandate's done. You know: you see the shortened day. The summer's nearly ended: yay. The endless tasks have gone away. The night, its moon, that's now the one. The summer's nearly ended: yay. I'm glad when summer's mandate's done.
– a triolet.
ㅁ Well, I'm glad that's over now. This aging... always getting older, how? ...furrowed brow.
– an englyn cil-dwrn .
ㅁ The years fall down like drops of rain. And soon you're just a muddy road. You learn to overlook the pain. The years fall down like drops of rain. You write cliches, the words are plain, 'Cause life deserves an aimless ode. The years fall down like drops of rain. And soon you're just a muddy road.
– a triolet.
ㅁ Fentwithe, he dysbawked, impormevisly dehonged, abrue maffended.
– a pseudo-haiku. This poem is nonsense, in the style of Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky. But to be clear, much of my internal monologue is like this.
#Poetry #Haiku #Senryu
ㅁ the alder leaves fade sometimes fail to turn yellow just fall down instead
– a pseudo-haiku.
ㅁ Words pile up, all jumbled, accumulate. Their meanings collect in semiotic berms, to surround the world's events, but without intention, like rain, until at last a text is produced.
– a reverse nonnet.
ㅁ The eagle has a plan: soar. Fly up, first, with wings' strength - a burst - before settling to a glide, no more.
– an englyn penfyr.