A Tanka Sequence
the muse
crowned with moonlight ...
I stand
naked and daunted
in her shadow
latest volley
in my diplomatic spat
with the muse ...
the words in my tanka
morph into dead cockroaches
the muse
hooded in black ...
clichés
cursing through
my veins
I wrestle
with the ghostly muse
until daybreak
my words of longing
spill onto the page
robins tweeting
on the first day of spring
I cross out the lines:
before time was
poetry was written
Whispers, August 17 2014
A Room of My Own: Old Blues Singer Haiku
-
old blues singer
on a Bourbon Street corner
tourists come and go
FYI: The heart of the French Quarter, Bourbon Street is the most well-known
street in New...