Bloomsday Haiku

sharp rain this evening
a nod of orange blossoms
on the ground

for Pep, always

13/8/66 - 16/6/13

143

English Summer Haiku

My entry to Centre for New Writing twitter poetry "micropoem14" competition.
Read the winning poems here: http://www.staffnet.manchester.ac.uk/news/display/?id=12528

#micropoem14 Lulled by the full moon a sleeping pond turns over. Gray rabbits gather. @newwritingMCR #EnglishSummer #haiku
— Kymm Coveney (@KymmInBarcelona) July 11, 2014

Sink or Swim

The first time I saw

the sea, I knew what it was

to drown. Held fast by

a line from the bow

of a sleek ship, the sky like

glass. Dunked in the waves.

Breath

turned to salt.

33 words added on to's original five: The first time I saw...

Tickled to be awarded silver for Trifextra 100 :)

Like an Egyptian

Holy words released

lift up in gentle rhythm.

Watch them burn like stars.

So I cheated a bit in   this weekend. They want a haiku, and I happened to have this one.

Olga y Marta tumban el ocho

Mirad el ocho
tumbado, infinito
en lontananza

Detach

willow-nested dove
when to let the broken branch
detach and fly off

Forgotten

I

I've been gutted.
Heart, soul, guts ripped out, forgotten
in the gutter.

Worse yet, I've
forgotten what they feel like.
Heart, soul, guts.

II

An absence of pain
As though the wound had been healed
Forgotten no more.

III

A vortex is what it ends up feeling like, although in the beginning it is barely a crack, a leak, a trickle. It seems to take a very long time to begin, but once you’ve noticed it, the trickle has become rapids cascading down the mountainside of your life.
It has nothing to do with names or keys. Surprisingly enough, computers offer the oddly comforting simile of the folder you open only to find it empty. Not a single file in it. Worse yet, you can’t for the life of you remember why the folder is named “Do-dads”.
The blank you draw leads you down the uncomfortable path of half-remembered sensations that you think you might recall if only you could remember where you felt them, or when.
You want to ask your dead husband, “What was it you whispered in my ear just as the city bus roared past?”, which he ran to catch and so you never got the chance to say “What?” That whispering, that restaurant, that day at that beach, they’re all at that place where memories are vacuumed up as if into a black hole to be left festering beside all the other memories that you don’t even know you’ve forgotten.

Do 2 Sucky Poems Make One Effort? "Worry"

The Photo

Your cheek pressed to mine
Smiling. Oh, how we did smile.
No need to worry.

Furry

A flurry
of worries
took the curry
by surrey
to the Murray's
in a hurry.

Wide

You filled up a room
Unhollow and unnarrow
Yet, uneternal.