I was in a hurry yesterday when I posted.  I meant to add that while the traditional haiku is 17 syllables, modern haiku don't necessarily adhere to that strict form.  They might go 6/8/6 or might be a good deal shorter.  Modern Haiku and Senryu might not even follow the three line format at all. 

Most modern Haiku consist of fewer than 17 syllables and are written in one, two, three, and four lines as well as a variety of shapes.  Written in the present tense, a haiku focuses on nature, frequently includes or suggests a season word, and relates a moment of discover/ surprise with each line offering a distinct image.  Also, within a haiku, a pivotal point shifts to another image, dividing the poem into two parts.  The pivot generally occurs at the end of the first or second line.  Traditionally humor was not a part of haiku.

A turtle floats
in water's edge. 
A head
and a shadow.

Senyru are people poems.  I've written many of them in the few years I've been writing poetry yet only now do I learn they are a separate form.  I'll give you a few examples pulled from my archives.  Again, there is not strict adherence to 5/7/5, though since I was working with the haiku format, most of them were written in 5/7/5.

going through the motions
pretending to be alive
dying deep inside

Poetry so small
each syllable expressing
meaning beyond sound.

nemesis rhythm
popping into my short poems
or hiding away

happy muse is gone
vacationing Bermuda
angsty muse is back

If you must have spam
spread ketchup, mustard, mayo.
Do not serve it plain.
 

this poem is for those
who brave my insanity
to come read my work

Those who love me true
are the only ones who come.
My poems I think, stink.

The muse is happy.
A fool? That is probably true.
But a happy fool.

We learn about second grade to write a Haiku.  We're told to make it about spring and give it 17 syllables  5/7/5.  I think for many of us, that is a much as we ever learn about the form.  Last week, or maybe the week before I had to write a Haiku for a contest.  They also mentioned Senryu which I had never heard of.  *ducks head and kicks dirt*  So I googled both forms and learned that proper Haiku should mention a season or at least refer to a season (dogwoods refer to spring).  Senryu, on the other hand is about people or human artifacts or feelings.  This morning I dug through my old poems and discovered that most of my supposed Haiku were really Senryu. 

I've posted this morning's poems over to the 100/100 challenge and in my blogspot.  You can see them there.

I'm tired of it.  Really tired of it. 
But...
I don't want to go to a Dr.  I don't want drugs.  
I do want well. 

Today I should be reading poetry.  Writing poetry, getting some work done.  But I feel lousy and so I'm just going to lay around till I have to head for work.  Tired and crabby again.  Someone just take me out behind the barn and put me out of all y'all's misery.

Here's what happens when I get overly busy.  I'm so horribly far behind reading everyone's posts.  My apologies if I don't comment on some.  I'm horribly behind and still have to get today's poem written and posted to the contest before midnight.  (never mind having to work :P )

The prompt for April 12 was to write a poem with the title So We Decided To _______.

This is a bit of a goofy thing.  Looks funny on the page with such a long title.


SO WE DECIDED TO LET NATURE TAKE ITS COURSE

Granted,
a dead horse
in the back yard
isn't the norm.

The potential
for disaster
is astounding.

Disease
carrying
flies.

Vermin
tunneling
through
rotting flesh.

Black headed
vultures
circling
circling.

Please God,
don't let
the wind
direction
change.

OK, I'm still working on the villanelle I posted over to 100 poems.  I still don't like it but here it is with the edits and with two different ending stanzas.  I'd be interested in any input. 

TO MY DAUGHTER

I wish I'd dared to let you see my heart,
it's always been so hard for me to share,
it would have been a worthy place to start.

You hold yourself as separate and apart;
it seems you've lost the heart and will to care.  
I wish I'd dared to let you see my heart,

I lacked the courage needed to impart
my soul, to let you see the scars in there;
it would have been a worthy place to start.

I wish I might by some sweet gentle art
restore our love, effect a sure repair;
I wish I'd dared to let you see my heart,

Given the chance, I'd play a different part
and turn this farce away from dark despair.
It would have been a worthy place to start.

I ask that from my love you not depart,
though with your dream mom I could not compare,
I wish I'd dared to let you see my heart,
it would have been a worthy place to start.

--- alternate final stanza  ---

I ask that from my love you not depart,
that for me some compassion you could spare,
I wish I'd dared to let you see my heart,
it would have been a worthy place to start.

gahhhhhh I hate the last stanza both ways.

oooh, my thanks to </a></b></a>who suggested  <crap, can't figure out how to make the person linky thingy work.

I ask that from my love you not depart
for with ideals I won't myself compare.
I wish I'd dared to let you see my heart;
it would have been a worthy place to start.

OK, I've dug around in my archives and found a few things.  I really need to take the time to sort them out by form (at least those that adhere to form).  These are all on the lighter side.  The pantoum was my very first and I was laboring under the impression that it required rhyme.  *shrugs*  Anyway, it was fun to write.  


To Write a Pantoum

A poem can be so very hard to write,
Such crazy rules there are to plague my path.
I try and try and try with all my might
Mayhap I should trade poetry for math.

Such crazy rules there are to plague my path
Repeat this line in the right place and time
Mayhap I should trade poetry for math.
It’s hard to get the proper lines to rhyme.

Repeat this line in the right place and time,
Don’t let it run away and have its fun.
It’s hard to get the proper lines to rhyme.
But when you do you’re proud of what you’ve done.

Don’t let it run away and have its fun.
These rules can make you crazy while you work.
But when you do you’re proud of what you’ve done.
Such pride there is in mastering the quirk.

These rules can make you crazy while you work.
Yet working it all out can be a feat.
Such pride there is in mastering the quirk.
The satisfaction of a job complete.

Yet working it all out can be a feat.
So mightily I struggle with the task.
The satisfaction of a job complete.
That in the finished work I’d like to bask.

So mightily I struggle with the task.
I try and try and try with all my might
That in the finished work I’d like to bask.
A poem can be so very hard to write.



The villanelles demonstrate my obsession with writing a non-obsessive villanelle.  :P

Giggles
villanelle

Her giggles fill the air,
this small one known as Boo,
her laughter free of care.

I watch her playing there
with her beloved Pooh.
Her giggles fill the air,

No feeling can compare,
her giggles do renew,
her laughter free of care.

I’m driven to declare
my love for her anew.
Her giggles fill the air,

Listening, I’m aware
of cheer that bubbles through.
Her laughter free of care.

She’s never known despair,
none can her joy subdue.
Her giggles fill the air,
her laughter free of care.

Pickle
villenelle

I desperately long for a pickle;
The food of the gods certainly.
The flavor makes my taste buds tickle.

Long ago they were two for a nickel
And certainly well worth the fee.
I desperately long for a pickle.

Up north I had pickle icicle
In an igloo by the frozen sea,
The flavor makes my taste buds tickle.

Down south it becomes deep fried chickle
Served with a tall glass of sweet tea;
I desperately long for a pickle.

To the shop I’ll ride on my bicycle,
I wish that the pickles were free,
The flavor makes my taste buds tickle.

My love for the pickle’s not fickle,
It’s my favorite food don’t you see?
I desperately long for a pickle,
The flavor makes my taste buds tickle.

The prompt for April 6 was to write a poem about missing.


EMPTINESS

It has been so long
since I've seen your icon
pop up in friendly chat.

We used to talk
about anything,
everything.

You were my
best friend
in the world.

I miss the way
we could always share
everything.

The prompt for April 10 was to write a Friday poem.  This being Friday I figured it a good time to get that one out of the way.

UNKNOWN QUANTITY

Morning's gentle light
washes night's shade
from tempered glass,
chases shadows
across oaken floor
to hide, banished
beneath sofa's pleated skirt.

Birdsong
chases fleeting dreams,
dissolving them,
elusive mist,
sweet whispers
transposed
into
Friday's start.

I've actually posted the edited version of this to my Blog Spot and on 100/100.
The prompt was for April 20 - rebirth.

Here is an earlier version.



TIME LAPSE PHOTOGRAPHY

Close up sequence.

The old mare,
solitary figure,
alone to die.
She lowers herself
gently to the earth,
her mother.

Macro shot sequence.

Blow fly,
bright green,
feeds on open eye,
lays eggs,
flies off.
Eggs hatch,
maggots eat,
pupate,
leave corpse
to burrow into
mother earth.

Telephoto sequence from up wind.

Buzzards circle.
One descends,
feeds,
is joined by his peers.

Telephoto lens sequence.

A cat perches
atop torn body,
tears small bites,
leaves.

Night photography sequence.

A dog paws
tattered brown skin,
rolls,
leaves.

Macro sequence.

Beetles scurry
through grisly bones,
cleaning.

Standard lens sequence.

Rain washes,
whitens;
sun bleaches,
purifies.
Snow blankets,
melts,
returns,
cleansing cycles.

A seed germinates,
grows lusty
in enriched soil,
vines over white arches,
blossoms
where once death reigned.

April 9ths challenge was to write about a memory.



REPRESSED MEMORY

It blazed out of the void;
vivid,
breath stealing,
lung constricting,
heart stopping
clarity.

It approached;
malevolent,
venomous,
terrifying,
destructive
hand.

Blackness descended;
dizzying,
vertiginous,
nauseating
anxiety.

Damage control;
shutting down,
repairing breaches,
denying veracity,
restoring
sanity.

The challenge for April 5 was to write about a landmark, famous or otherwise.  I've chosen to write about local landmarks in a slightly colloquial framework.

EASY ENOUGH

It's easy to find,
turn left at the water tower,
right at the old armory,
sixteen miles out you'll see
a house with a slate roof,
says in the slate, 1847,
just .3 miles from there's
a red barn with
weathercock,
make a left just past that barn,
there's a stone house at the corner
peeking through overgrown shrubs,
might not be able to see it,
used to be a great landmark
back when the old folks was living,
Missrus Pence kept a mighty fine garden,
anyhow, turn left there,
we're the third drive on the right,
got a purple clematis climbing the mailbox,
end of the drive,
you can't miss it.

Today I chose the prompt for April 8 - to write a poem about either a specific routine or routines in general.  So I am giving you a glimpse into the life of a music teacher who teaches private music lessons supplemented with three mornings a week music for preschoolers.  Feel free to be either amazed or bored.  This one lacks the grace of being in the least bit poetic.  More like a painful list.

EVERY DAY IS DIFFERENT

Mondays work starts at 3
and runs to 7,
more or less.
But every other Monday
there is physical therapy
at 1.
Some Monday's
I have a massage at 10:45.

Tuesdays I rush to print lesson plans
and begin my classes at 10:30.
At noon I cross town
to eat sushi
with my academia nuts,
detour to record
the week's Blog Radio show,
fifteen minutes of poetry,
then back to teach from 3:30 – 7.

Wednesdays
I might or might not have
physical therapy at 11.
Teaching runs from 12:15 – 6.
Grab some supper;
orchestra rehearsal
7:30 – 8:30.

Thursdays start early.
Students come to my home 8 AM.
Print out lesson plans and off;
morning classes 10:30 – 11:45.
Lunch on my own,
hopefully with wifi.
Change locations;
teach from 4:30 – 7.
Third Thursday
moderate writer's guild
7 – 9.

Friday morning,
more lesson plans,
more early classes
with small children
singing
“Beethoven wrote nine symphonies
and this one is number nine...”
Lunch, rushed every other week
to make it to physical therapy
then back to teach;
group 3:30 – 4,
private lesson 4:15 – 5.
Over the river and through the woods
I'm off to my weekend
of substitute care giver.

Saturday,
wake early,
remember to dispense pills
along with the love,
to change adult diapers
and launder sheets.

Sunday,
God grant me rest.

It was the ringing phone that awakened me this morning at 5:50.  I didn't quite make it to the house phone in time and then my cell phone rang.  Seemingly, sometime during the night Momma got out of her bed and went for a walk.  L (her caregiver) found her face down in a ditch about a 1/4 mile from the house.  She was cold and unresponsive.  L called an ambulance and they took her to Harriman hospital.  By noon her core temperature was up to 94.1.  She has fractures in the face, collar bone, and three ribs.  It could have been far worse.  Her home is on the shore of Watts Bar Lake.  If she had headed down the front yard she could have drowned.  If she had headed around behind the house she could have been lost in the woods till she was beyond help.  She went up the lane instead.  She is alive, reasonably lucid, eager to go home.  The hospital will be keeping her several days.  Before she goes back home, the door will be rigged with an alarm.