Crying like the light within me

I’ve got cheap suitcase syndrome
I can’t sleep but on the roadside
under troves of leaves
enwrapped in wings of night

worms beneath my head
an apple in my eye
dust around my pants cuffs
Walt Whitman under my boot soles

did I mention suitcases?
I bank my will in them
tie strings around my navel
to remember, or forget,

whichever suits my case
like a blind wizard-boy
don’t look now here comes
another arrow

Comment-a-Haiku Poetry Competition!

A bit of fun for everyone. Go fot it!

Vita Brevis

Vita Brevis is hosting a four-day haiku competition–taking place entirely in the comment section of this post!


Here’s What You Need to Know:

How to Submit:

1. Submit one nature-themed haiku as a comment on this post

2. Reblog this post on your blog or write a post announcing that you’ve entered it

3. (Optional) Give good feedback on other commenters’ work!

Theme: Nature

Reward: We’ll publish the winning poet, featuring their haiku on the front page of our online magazine with a link to their blog.

When: Starting right now (08/10), ending Monday night (08/13)

Questions: Use our Contact Us page–I’ll get back to you soon!

Support Us Here.


I’ll try to respond to as many of you as I can–get writing and have fun!

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St. Augustine never graced my dreams

The writer, says the poet,
must only write
what must not be written.

Such are the quests
we pursue, Sancho-Panza-less,
weak despite our dreams

secret cowards pretending
to be secret heroes.
Who remembers, now,

all those wasted hours
dreaming springtimes
that never came, never left?

Who would want to repeat
such nonsense, who would
listen anyway?

Thousands of lives ago
they, too, believed to the core
of their death-bound souls,

incarnate but powerless,
amused but mirthless
amid those others

who seemed unshackled
but bore also
the scars of sentience.

Whole stories narrated
themselves, so complete
and unpierceable

that if they were not true
then nothing was.
And now, we’ve worn away

the so-convincing patina,
exposed the tin beneath
the blinding shine.

Into the teeth of it, then!
No use making a penance
of it. Allez-op!

Who writes poems, anyway,
but poets? Who reads them
but you?

An ankie taile

A bit of whimsey to start off the week.

Gorra, an lie kracket
the wee dawnie dae
from splet to splet
an a’ the weasel kinges
clambeth op.

A northie hawke has flet!

Hoo kenna splenna laik
the mermal twae?
Wan an twee dipsa swan
tell a’ the crukdum sings
an die, an stop.

A northie hawke has splet!

an ney willa cumagin
furrah the bashie wail.