at the seashore
wind of summer through my hair
shortest night
Chevrefeuille
at the seashore
waves pound the empty pool
too rough for swimmers
wind of summer through my hair
not down under - brrr it's winter here
a chilly southern hemisphere
shortest night
it gets dark early -hurry home to
hot soup and woolly socks
Today I would love to share the above haiku with you all to inspire you. I think it fits our theme for today "Returning Back To Normal". Isn't that the goal of a pilgrimage? To find your way back to your Inner Self? _ Kristjann aka Chevrefeuille
wending our way
back again to our sweet dutchman's
haiku heaven
basho hides behind a bush
the frogs croak all night
there was a little bird
who had a little friend
who only ever appeared in a puddle
just around the bend
on moonlit nights he'd see him
amongst the cobble stones
when all was still and quiet
no humans with their phones
he did not see him often
but they were very very close
cos the little birdie knew
his friend loved him the most
just waiting
years go by
just waiting
for mr right
for mr almost right
for mr not quite right
for mr not completely wrong
good things come
to those who wait
and little piggies do fly
Weekly Scribblings # 71 WAITING
it can take a lifetime
to differentiate between
decades long strategic alliances
and real friendship
especially
when one is an ostrich
hard to confront
but best to know
Day 27
Parody on The Crocodile - Lewis Carroll
how doth the little underling
scale the pecking order
deferring never demurring
cajoling following orders
how cheerfully he seems to grin
kowtowing to roars and bellow
it is his lot no schemes nor plots
just an ordinary little fellow
Day 28
i have known you
my entire life
you live in the next suburb
you suggest we keep in touch
by texting or email
which is ok for bloggers
separated by oceans
and continents
but
i find this
too offensive
too rude
too weird
too chilling
for those old 'friends'
who live only
a stone's throw away
unimpressed
by your vip status
no thanks
Day 29
the best bed must have been very special
to inspire such lovely lines
feminists are not too thrilled about your leaving
the second best one to your wife
although better than the mouldy cushions
hidden in the priest hole
Day 30
it can rain
for days
for weeks
for months
at some stage
someone
might throw you an umbrella
then you have to work out
how to use it
Day 21
the slings and arrows
of outrageous fortune
are firing in our general direction
again
the faceless bureaucrats are
alive
( in a manner of speaking )
and hopefully all
unwell
Day 22
in
the wee hours
the precious hours
the quiet hours
moments for myself
i write
my great luxury
fortified
by fur rugs
and a mountain of pillows
i sink into my cosy pink world
place my thoughts on the page
and nod off
Day 23
Shall I compare thee to a summers day
too late for that
the summer of my life has passed
i am but a mere dot disappearing
over the horizon in a winter coat
Day 24
sipping pineapple juice
cuddling up to my person in a red fleecy top
things could be worse
Day 25
the governor general
said this year all aussies
must celebrate anzac day
so i forced myself to buy
2 large packets of anzac biscuits
knowing i have done my duty
This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.
In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.
This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.
The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.
No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.
No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then
for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.
But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.
After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,
so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.
