As part of my Blogging 101 Day 15 Assignment: Creating a New Posting Feature, I have decided to give myself a challenge (and of course anyone else may join in!) by using Dictionary.com’s Word of the Day each Friday in a Haiku. (A haiku is a three-line poem with 5 syllables in the first and last line and 7 syllables in the middle.)
Today’s word is PERFECT!
Laconic Haiku
When braggarts are urged
to keep comments laconic…
silence is golden
~ kat ~ 21 august 2015
It’s not how she imagined
it. Pale, tear-tracked
faces scowling at the
misting rain, a conspicuous
mound of earth, muddied,
near a deep hole of
nothingness, surrounded
by a silent chorus of
cold epitaphs etched in
stone…and weary
hopeless words, fancy
with accolades…words her
ears longed to hear once
upon a lifetime, reserved
now for a handful of black-
clad witnesses, who
listened, nodding, as if
they needed reminding. No,
this was not how she would
have ended things, making
peace with the unfinished
chapters, pages forever
left unturned, the
final page given much
more attention than
it was due.
If she had planned this
sad suarez it would have
been set in a field of
wildflowers near a bubbly
stream on a sun
shiny day with string
music and flowers…and
fruit pies, ice cream and
chocolate fountains…dogs,
cats and song birds and
helium-filled balloons
with rainbow-ribboned
tails. As for words…
no words…
simple knowing smiles
and laughter would
suffice. There would be
hugs, long full-frontal
hugging and kisses for
those so inclined. The
dress code would be
flowing shades of
fuchsia and yellow and
turquoise…green and
azure blue…no black
allowed. There would be
no cold dark
holes of unsettled
earth to bury tears or
lifeless roses and stiff
remains…no…a simple
ziplock bag of dust to
be tossed to the
wind, with a handful
reserved to set
sail on the sparkling
rivulets of stream
water nearby. If she
had planned it, this
is how it would have
been….a celebration
of love and life
full spent.
kat 2015
she is the wind, tossing
whispers of hair, bending
green canopies, rousing
wild tempests
her voice is a purr,
it is unabashed laughter,
birdsong and brook
bubbles, dissonant bliss
droplets of ocean and
stardust on moonbeams,
a fragrant, delectable
feast for the senses
bloodborne, arterial,
dew infused breath,
flesh covered sinew
imprinted in dust
found in each moment
palpable, fleeting,
a sparkling implosion
for those paying attention.
kat ~ august 2015
i remember the
delicate curve
of her neck softened
by wisps of baby-fine
amber hair that glistened
in the pale streams of
midday sun…wafts
of lavender … or
was it just a remnant
hint of Yardley’s soap
that danced
on air?
I remember
thinking to myself…
i know why
he loves her.
kat 2015
her wall is lined with
photographs of happy
smiles and silly faces,
destination postcard
vistas, wet-nosed flapping
puppy tongues and toothless
gummy grins. a monument
of moments captured by a
shutter snap, of life full-
lived but fleeting, scattered
now upon the wind.
at times she can imagine
pitter-pattered steps and
laughter, memories
fresh, warm as a whisper,
as it brushes past her
ear. the dust has settled
softly on her fading gallery,
her chicks have flown
the nest to make their
own sweet memories.
kat 2015
