Pages

Saturday, November 28, 2009

Poetry Stretch Results - Hay(na)ku

The challenge this week was to write in the form of hay(na)ku. Here are the results.
Jane Yolen left this poem in the comments.
    The Widow Speaks

    Husband,
    Come back.
    I miss you.

    These
    One-way conversations
    Satisfy no one.

    If
    You cannot
    Come to me,

    I
    Must go
    Underground to you.

    Your
    Gray stone
    Beckons to me,

    The
    Words written
    On its surface

    A
    Printed invitation.
    Here’s my RSVP.

    I
    Will not
    Be too long.

    © 2009 Jane Yolen, all rights reserved.
Heidi Mordhorst of my juicy little universe left this poem in the comments.
    Good
    morning Tricia
    I finally Stretch!

    before
    trying hay(na)ku
    must make lunches

    tofu
    soy sauce
    storebought chocolate pudding
Diane Mayr of Random Noodling left this poem in the comments.
    Turkey
    sits waiting
    frozen solid, wrapped

    in
    plastic. Innards
    removed except for

    liver,
    gizzard, and
    heart soon to

    become
    additions to
    gravy, stuffing, or

    kept
    for the
    dog's thanksgiving treat.

    I
    ask: what
    would the Pilgrims

    think
    about our
    idea of thanks?
Kate Coombs of Book Aunt left this poem in the comments.
    One
    leaf, shaken
    by windy envy.

    One
    bird, rewriting
    a November sky.

    One
    sound, alarm
    clock prodding me.

    One
    good morning
    in the mirror.

    One
    pillow, making
    half a bed.

    One
    lunch beside
    the front door.

    One
    bowl, one
    spoon and cup.

    Sometimes
    I forget
    lonely, but then

    Some
    days it
    eats me up.

    --Kate Coombs (Book Aunt), 2009
Kelly Polark left this poem in the comments.
    Thanksgiving.
    Time to
    Stuff the turkey.

    Holidays.
    Time to
    Stuff the human.

    January.
    Time to
    Start your diet!

    --Kelly Polark, 2009
Easter of Owl in the Library shares a poem entitled Married to the Military.

Carol Weis left this poem in the comments.
    Stirs Up Memories

    I
    miss Mom
    as the holidays

    come
    upon us.
    The thought of

    her
    easy laugh
    and the sweet

    scent
    she wore
    stirs up memories.

    I
    can smell
    her creamed onions

    drifting
    through the
    house as I

    peel
    the skins
    of those small

    white
    elliptic beauties
    ready to drop

    them
    into a pot
    that she once

    used
    knowing full
    well her redolent

    essence
    will infuse
    this reminiscent dish.

    © Carol Weis. All rights reserved.
Julie Larios of The Drift Record left this poem in the comments.
    Ten
    leaves falling,
    nine hang on,

    Eight
    winds blowing -
    going, going, gone.

    Seven
    to Heaven.
    Six to sea.

    Five
    says Four,
    please marry me.

    Three
    leaf babies
    in a swirl,

    Two
    Leaf Boys,
    one Leaf Girl.
Susan Taylor Brown left several poems in the comments.
    jangled leash calls
    snoring dog
    awake

    ***

    grandmother's rosewater perfume
    calls back
    yesterday

    ***

    families
    gather happily
    but not mine

    mine
    pretend invisibility
    breaking grandma's heart
Linda of Write Time left this poem in the comments.
    An Invitation

    Children
    now grown-
    far from home.

    Sharing
    this holiday
    with their in-laws.

    Spending
    our first
    year without them.

    Might
    be fun-
    trying something new.

    Thanksgiving
    for two-
    How about it?

    You
    and me-
    dinner by candlelight?
Stephanie Parsley of sparble shares a poem entitled For Alfred, Visiting From My Daughter's Junior High Science Lab.

Harriet of spynotes left this poem in the comments.
    Three

 [a hay(na)ku]

    Once,
    I had
    three small things:


    a
    white horse
    with silver wings


    that
    fit in
    my small palm,


    a
    tiny green
    beetle who buzzed,


    and
    a pebble
    from the river.


    I
    kept them
    in my pocket,


    warmed
    them between
    hands and thighs,


    until
    the beetle
    spread its wings.


    Then
    there were
    only two things.

    The
    pebble slipped
    somewhere toward home.

    It
    clicked against
    the pavement, vanished.


    But
    the horse
    with silver wings,


    it
    lies in
    my pocket still –

    As,
    I think,
    it always will –


    to
    remind me
    of possible flight,

    to
    remind me
    of possible loss,


    to
    remind me
    to hold to

    one
    true thing
    to carry around,


    one
    horse with
    two silver wings,


    and
    a hand
    to hold them.
I tried hard to write about Thanksgiving this week, but sometimes you have to go where the words lead you.
Impossible
is bringing
my father back

but
that’s exactly
what I want

one
more day
alone with him

watching
his strong
hands at work

listening
to strains
of Dixieland jazz

silently
working together
side by side

Impossible
is filling
the enormous hole

in
my heart
and our family
It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.

3 comments:

  1. Thank you for the stretches and inspiration on The Miss Rumphius Effect! I posted something at sparble.blogspot.com.

    ReplyDelete
  2. I'm with Jane on the one-way conversations.

    I'm with you, too, Tricia. I hope you're having some bright moments to balance the melancholy.

    ReplyDelete
  3. These are beautiful. Here's another.

    Three

[a hay(na)ku]

    Once,

    I had

    three small things:



    a

    white horse

    with silver wings



    that 

    fit in

    my small palm,



    a

    tiny green

    beetle who buzzed,



    and

    a pebble

    from the river.



    I

    kept them

    in my pocket,



    warmed

    them between

    hands and thighs,



    until

    the beetle

    spread its wings.



    Then

    there were

    only two things.



    The

    pebble slipped

    somewhere toward home.



    It

    clicked against

    the pavement, vanished.



    But

    the horse

    with silver wings,



    it

    lies in
    my pocket still –

    As,
    I think,

    it always will –


    to

    remind me

    of possible flight,

    to
    remind me

    of possible loss,



    to
    remind me

    to hold to

    one

    true thing

    to carry around,



    one

    horse with

    two silver wings,



    and
    a hand

    to hold them.

    ReplyDelete