An unusually chilly bluster

In spite of an unusually warm delay, autumn arrived with a chilly bluster, and Mrs. Pomeroy quickly moved her non-hardy citrus trees indoors, away from the dropping nighttime temperatures. However disappointed, Buttercup knew not to waste time bemoaning the absence of her beloved mandarins; she needed a viable energy source to get through winter. Minutes… Continue reading An unusually chilly bluster

Fallen, or: Swept away

Poetry Partners #131 'The Fallen', a poem by Brandon Ellrich The sun grows weary of providing warmth, And birds must bend to his whims. Leaves have betrayed their host, And fallen from their homes. The jealous wind, no longer seen, In the branches of the trees, Now sweeps through the discarded canopy, To show that… Continue reading Fallen, or: Swept away

Dawn, or: Twilight

A Cleave poem In the form of two Tankas tall, frosted windows reflecting dawnโ€™s rays as the horizon lights up deep purple morning glories under cotton clouds opening to rain marking the autumn season harbinger of winter chill look upon a dull, brown world spelling tender petals' ends How to read a Cleave poem? Simply:… Continue reading Dawn, or: Twilight

Windows, or: Fourth dimension

A waltmarie Comprised of 5 consecutive American sentences A chilly breeze blows across the apartment through large, open windows. We find ourselves observing the shifting seasons, passengers through time. Our senses tingle at winter's birth, our bare hands; noses; tongues... our eyes. The frailty of bare trees and wind's colors are almost hard to look… Continue reading Windows, or: Fourth dimension

Silence, or: The lambs

A haibun I can't recall ever being afraid of death, although my father's death led me to reflect deeply upon death's effects upon the yet living. Still, as uncomfortable as that line of thinking is, it leaves me tearful rather than fearful. Papa's death has also led me to think a lot about suffering. He… Continue reading Silence, or: The lambs

Floating, or: Flying

A Haibun I have writer's block, in the sense that all I want to do most days is write; sometimes, it gets in the way of (/blocks me from) being fully present in my life. The composition of poetry is a defining aspect of my every day; it has become impossible for me to conceive… Continue reading Floating, or: Flying