A Poem a Day (672): Gusts - a handful of hay(na)ku

My dad passed away earlier this month, so I haven't felt like writing. Today it's raining. Sleek. You can hear the soft speed of cars passing through. 
 
These poems are inspired by a prompt from NaPoWriMo.net. They are not related and are meant to be read separately. Prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: a hay(na)ku consists of a three-line stanza, where the first line has one word, the second line has two words and the third line has three words. 
 
 

Gusts,

playful air,

feather-light touch.

---

 

Waiting

for moments

to land. Patience.

---

 

Hands

creep sly,

numbers eating time.

---

 

Lyrics

dancing over

tramlines of notes.

Emotions

strung, remembered,

sung, empathy won.

 

---

Doors

so invisible

you cannot seek,

 

cobwebbed handles hidden,

tomorrow expectant,

unopened.

---

 

Fancy.

Not free.

Laboured. Caged inside.

---

 

Long

is the

walk to freedom.

---

 

Heady,

the lily,

bathed in pollen.

---

 

Spaniel,

red bucket,

new best pal.

---

 

Amazon.

Delivered. Opened.

Artful cat waits.

---

 

Rose.

Lemon’s breath.

Head now snapped.

---

 

Funk.

Get out.

Mojo must rise.

---

 

Scarlet.

99 balloons

racing the wilds.

---

 

Solitary.

Smoke wisps,

curling gnarled hands.

---

 

Lashes,

no tears,

dashed with rain.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, June 23, 2024

A Poem a Day (671): My guide through the hedgerows

 
I wrote this one for JD Mader's 2minutesgo writing page. If you fancy writing something or reading other people's work, head over there. Cheers :) 

I went for a walk late this afternoon and the light was wild, and this little brown butterfly kept landing on stones in front of me and as I got near it flew on. This happened about seven or eight times. It was awesome. 

My guide through the hedgerows 

It leads me, in flutter,
til spread still on a moss-fed stone
it sits, contemplates, flits upward
to flicker in this slip of spilt sun,
movements sluggish and kind.

It is my spirit guide through giants,
trunks sunk in this ditch deep-dug 
between hedgerows with their spill of purple 
velvet, lemon cups, horns of melting nectar, 
spun pearl-white daisies linking hands. 

Once more it perches, sienna-gold gilded, 
and in its unique timing it lifts again in game, 
shows me its childish side in secret,
waiting for the human to play catch-up
and understand nature’s way of speaking. 

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, June 1, 2024

A Poem a Day (670): One to ten

 
 
One:

all the sacred lists of never done,
the wished upon, bled, un-won.
 
Two:

a struck filament, who knew?
Seeping fire, sweeping through.
 
Three:

in an instant he’s down on one knee,
emoting for all the world to see.
 
Four:

a pool of friends bleat at the door,
full knowledge of the homeless poor.
 
Five:

you get a full calendar to grieve,
suppress your own joy to still live.
 
Six:

he’s standing in line for another fix,
missing, extinct, exiled from the mix.
 
Seven:

they’re all trying to make it leven,
seeing signs full-sail from heaven.
 
Eight:

it’s a time to step inside your fate;
only make sure it’s not too late.
 
Nine:

he said “I want it all to be mine”
and yet he didn’t want to spend a dime.
 
Ten:

she lingered awhile beneath Big Ben,
doused by rain, oblivious to all men.

 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, June 1, 2024