Sometimes don't you just want a hot cup of Haiku?

“Fall(ing)”

Up high in the sill
the man in the pin-striped suit
sways calm in the breeze.


“Rent”

She opens them one
by one. Lays them on the desk.
He will never come.


“Five”

Struggling with words,
this language is new for him.
Remember he is young.


“Dow”

Money, paper, pens.
If it falls again, will we?
Try not to invest.


“Stephen-cat”

I reflect the light
on the floor. He likes to play
with his own shadow.

Exercising my Creativity?

“79”
by Rachel Pinkstone

Prologue
The door, unusually open, gushed a flood of welcoming light 
no more inviting than the torrent of expectation behind it. Nine months 
since this threshold was passed last. Nine months of promises made
 into a solid ball of guilt, hard against my stomach. The doorbell 
had the same old chime, that tune we all know, but can’t recollect.  
Her eyes (wrinkled by irritation and our hesitance to walk right in) met 
each our matching set of baby blues. That look said so many things: 
surprise, relief, anger, maybe joy.

Chapter One 
How’syourmother?Whendidyouchangeyourhair?Didweknowyouwerecomingthistime?Whendidyouloseallthatweight?Haveyougottenarealjobyet?Isthereamaninyourlife?Didweknowyouwerecomingthistime?Whenwillyoubringusgrandkids?Whyhaven’tyoucalled?WillweseeyouatThanksgiving?HowaboutChristmas?Didweknowyouwerecomingthistime?Don’twealwaysseeyouatChristmas?Didyouthinkwe’dforgetyourbirthday?Didweknowyouwerecomingthistime?

Chapters Two through Twelve
The clink and tap of utensils, fork against plate, metal vs. porcelain,
was deafening. Aunt ---‘s new crown, third molar in back, twice now replaced, 
made audible effort to bite. Uncle --- gargled his mashed potatoes, 
coughed after a swallow. We watched him for struggle; returned to our meal. 
Grandpa maneuvered his food; turkey slid into place, biscuit rumbled off the plate, 
green beans squelched under the force. I only stirred my drink, repeatedly, 
the ice played like bells. A forty-minute orchestration instrumented, 
entirely, by of our digestion.

Chapter Thirteen

Promisemeyou’llvisitmore,Wewon’tbearoundforever,sometimesIforgetmymedication,Muslimsmovedinacrossthestreet,Promisemeyou’llvisitmore,Ihavetopinchtherosebushbeforethefirstfrost,Rememberwhenweboughtyouthatbike?Promisemeyou’llvisitmore,Didyouseemetakethecolaseorthexanax?Rememberthatweloveyou,Promisemeyou’llvisitmore.

Epilogue
The door closed, unusually, behind us. 

First reading it, now writing it?

“Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.” ~Percy Bysshe Shelley  

Write a poem that lifts the veil and makes the familiar unfamiliar. 

I do believe this Poetry workshop will be a definite stretch for my creative abilities, as Poetry is not exactly...my bag. Don't get me wrong, as I have mentioned, I happily provide feeble attempts at deciphering contemporary poetry and the grand array of new writers popping up like delectable little mushrooms. Unfortunately, when the pen is put in my hand and I am asked to create in this genre, I often revert back to kindergarten tactics, with childish rhyme schemes and silly imagery.

More often than not, I revert to being funny...because that's what I do best.

All right, then. Here goes. Lifting the veil:

[“Half past the hound’s leg”]
Rachel Pinkstone


Half past the hound’s leg,
noble purpose is spoiled 
by the day’s early waste.

August heat swells and
puckers; still, the air is too moist
for a spark.

Respect and function pass by
these proud pillars rounding 
every corner, alongside power-
walkers and bichons.

That is, until metal clangs and 
sinks cold between the joints, 
prying apart the Johnnie
on Second and Chester.

And, finally, when the pressure
is released and fluid rushes
forward, children squeal with 
delight and relief.

Originally titled, "For the love a Hydrant," I decided to leave and air of mystery in the first few stanzas as this is the only arena where the poem is accompanied by a visual.