We machine… – (a haiku sonnet)

We machine sadness;
hone the lives of our knives and 	
sharpen our dances

to slice into the
watery selves of these silks
that we wave about.

We choreograph 
the movements of alphabets,		
shading the letters

with all the wet and
hard and broken things that we 
find in our insides.

And then? We cry out, spilling
them onto the floor.

Drive, a haiku sonnet

There is a robin 
singing in a tree somewhere,
telling the world he

is looking for a 
mate. A robin sings in a 
tree somewhere, telling 

the world he has found 
a mate. The tree somewhere is 
a tulip in the 

neighbor's front yard. Spring 
has come. We drive by the same 
people, sleeping in

bags on the sidewalk, waiting 
for the world to warm.

(Been a little minute since I wrote one of these...)

NaPoWriMo / NaPoREADMo — Day 8 — Three Facets

(damned soundcloud.  I've been waiting for 45 minutes for this to "process."  
It was done on the 8th.  I swear.)

Three Facets


It is strange to place
a smell that has been so long 
lost to memory,

to realize that
you did not feel its missing
until you found it

waiting for you, a 
breath of absence in the room
that clings and orbits

around you and the 
dying dog.  It is not yours.
It is not a gift.

It is left for us by the
living as they leave. 


It is strange to come 
across a thing waiting just 
here for just you to 

find its missing at 
this right moment, next to the 
kiss that you placed on 

your mother’s brow when 
you asked her if she wanted
to go home to die.

These are not things that
I can understand.  They are
the same life.  Their deaths

smell much the same no matter
who does the dying.


It is a strange place
to find yourself, on this
bare floor between these

two like epigraph
and epilogue, both ends and 
both beginnings,

and arbitrary bookends,
heavy with hollow.  

Who could have guessed that 
you would find your self in this 
simple act, waiting 

for you to tell it apart 
from where you found it?

A trio of haiku sonnets

NaPoWriMo / NaPoREADMo — Day 5 — Zenaida Macroura, a haiku sonnet

Grey morning creeps in

through open-eyed windows, steals

between the sheets—as

dark as the thought of

cold before it can be felt—

slips through shuttered eyes

sewn shut by colors

dreamed into them without will

or consistency,

and now, just there, just

above the window, grey-winged

mourners come.  Perhaps,

like me, they want the world to

wake up without them.

Against the Moon as Such, a haiku sonnet

The moon is not full 
of dreamy light.  The moon is 
full of….well,…the moon.

One could say the moon 
is full of rock, I guess.  Yes, 
lots and lots of rock.

And the moon is not 
a hole punched in anything,
either.  It shines like

….well, it shines like the 
moon, I guess.  It shines like a 
ball of rock.  Up there.

In the sky. Where it winks its
cold eyes at the sun.

Un-Cooked, a haiku sonnet

(inspired, yet again, by a conversation with Natalie/potterfan97)

here’s a piece for you—a 
slab on the boards waiting for 
the knife of your eyes.  

it drips from my mouth.  
there is blood in it.  there is 
iron and weakness 

in it.  it turns from 
red to ochre in the air.  
can you smell it?  it's 

starting to rot.  can 
you stomach it?  your gut must 
match its emptiness 

or it will infect you and 
eat you from within.