Skip to main content

Where the Water Runs, A Deliberate Haiku

 


Where the water runs
chasing wilder hunts, more slip
there the dark dirt sits.

Immediately confessing to being a twit. Last week was pretty much a washout thanks to a stomach bug and, yeah, just glad to be posting. Still, I'm a total twit. 

-- Chrissa

Comments

  1. HelenJuly 25, 2021 at 6:15 PM

    Twit? You? Not a chance, the poetry you shared proves otherwise.

    ReplyDelete
  2. JimJuly 25, 2021 at 11:27 PM

    You ain't no twit
    Never heard you giggle
    Sun sets on frogs
    ..

    ReplyDelete
  3. FireblossomJuly 26, 2021 at 3:25 AM

    Et tu, Chrissa?

    ReplyDelete
  4. hedgewitchJuly 26, 2021 at 7:17 AM

    Despite the risk of Shay scorning me forever, I have to say I enjoy the occasional *well-written* haiku, which this is. It's excellent. Sadly, the form is probably the most abused one out there. But no twit could have written this one.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Carrie Van HornJuly 26, 2021 at 7:26 AM

    Your lines are evocative and bring much to think on in such a few words. Also, you are as far from being a twit as I am from winning a marathon or a beauty pageant. You are one of the most brilliant poets I know my friend! Never forget it!!!! <3

    ReplyDelete
  6. indybevJuly 26, 2021 at 7:38 AM

    I'm convinced you don't qualify for twitdom!

    ReplyDelete
  7. Gillena CoxJuly 27, 2021 at 12:50 PM

    I hear the thunder of hoof and see the shifting earth. This is very very evocative. Bravo.
    Thanks for dropping by my blog

    Much💜love

    ReplyDelete
  8. qbitJuly 27, 2021 at 5:13 PM

    This is excellent.

    ReplyDelete
  9. purplepeninportland.comJuly 27, 2021 at 6:04 PM

    No twit, you. I love this!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

By the Roadside

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #260  with much appreciation to Carrie & Shay & everyone. Just a reminder: if you have a poetry book, please drop a title in the comments. My TBR won't thank you, but I will. :)    I drive by the armadillos, dead where they fell. Sunlight is so heavy it folds into damp shimmers. All the roads are widening, dispersing the ditches, Grinding out parking lots, killing slow steps. I speed up; crisp winter in the passenger seat. We will arrive at the store soon; I will drag her Chill, into the store. Breathe for both of us. Brightness distorts the lots, now grown gigantic. Roads need blood, the state needs the kills. We will make it through barriers if we wear them: Dead armadillos, caliche dust, gunmetal sunshine.
8 comments
Read more

Turn Away

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse , for #193. Turn away, like the moon, listening... Listening to the planet that rumbles with a hundred million slaps. All the feet, all the rockets, all the  pistons in the cars on the asphalt over the chasm where the veins run deep, blue in sunlight, black at night. Running over the chasm.  Once or twice they ran to you. Once or twice they ran by. Greetings and salutations. The sky is an entertaining shade of concrete yellow as the rain promised earlier in the week makes good on its arrival. It's a disturbing bright sallow sky, the kind of sky that puts you in mind of old movies and degraded film stock and the pops and crackles incidental to the main story.  Several years ago I made a resolution to journal more and last year I came across a video that suggested I actually re-read those journals, at least those of the previous year, at the beginning of each new year. Technically, I have kept the journal resolution, making daily notes in...
15 comments
Read more

The Soul and The Spine

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #195 . Come and share! When it blew out the candle, It began to speak, voice low,  eyes dimmer than flame. Jenn believed, once upon a childhood (she's still there... but it's waning), it inhaled fire. Spines, tonight. Gears ladder bones and metal and plastic, all that lived, rungs to heaven. Heaven is a level of space where you can't breathe  so they used to send the dead. When the flame goes, it takes our memories with it. But not bot files. Maybe it believes  she'll sleep easier if bots go breathless, too. It continues murmuring and she pretends she's hearing a confession in a box Like the song her mother plays when the dark stretches  between signals We can handle shocks. She can handle the dark, the small  not-flame of its eyes. It's finally winter!! Which means bitmapped frost on the roofs, cold mornings, and a table full of succulents that are pretty much glaring at me because the kitchen window isn't the same as full su...
14 comments
Read more