a dilemma of
riches in tiny topaz
the art of language
only blog can make a tree
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a dilemma of
riches in tiny topaz
the art of language
a dilemma of
riches in tiny topaz
the art of language
“Read my poem? Please?”
In real life I’d get blank stares.
Here, you’re back for more.
Just over five months
This one four hundred fifty
Art or wasted time?
A haiku a day?
Not quite. Some days the tap runs,
some days it’s bone dry.
Mud has a smell that’s
like waking up to coffee.
You know you’re alive.
the constant dripping
nature’s tears of joy as she
sees her world reborn
What’s that mean? That spring’s
a dominatrix, whipping
March ’til it submits?
Reclaiming the word,
she grabs the bitch by the horns
and makes us all proud.
With all this trash talk
even the winner comes out
smelling like garbage.
for jem who says, “it’s your last lines that get me everytime.“
I’d like to think of
myself as the O. Henry
of the haiku form.