The stream (all workshops)
There are Fairies at the bottom of my garden
And they visit every evening, for a dance
They are lovely to behold and very welcome
I just wish they didn’t trample on my plants
Their favourite one appears to be the Salsa
They do it with such style and aplomb
Much better than last week when they were jivin’
It appeared they’d hit the garden with a bomb
So I do believe in Fairies, ‘cos I’ve seen them
And every night I watch them, in a trance
They are graceful and delightful and enchanting
A delicate rose,
memories drifting.
Alas, November rain.
Free Haiku (C) Maref
THE SUN BLED CRIMSON RED
The sun bled crimson red
into the western seas
and fire blazed in the darkening skies
piercing wakes of fading sunlight
as the moon yellow pale broke the night.
icy Nordic waves rode on wings of fury
and the trees like skeletons danced
on gallows in the wind.
the fields lay fallow
the earth barren and still
and the noise of all living things
died in thuds of silence.
above
an eagle's point of view
a symphony of green breaks
the monotony of sky on the
earth below,
sun, moon and stars pass overhead
with stories told but unsaid
vagabond bones on a dusty road
speak of time in a seed:
trees, rooted in dirt shed
seasonal leaves
like brilliant titles and musical
notes falling into human bodies
passing away the hours of memory.
We drift along elongated shadows like
rivers.
That Snowfall
The winter season, kept all of us waiting for snow,
the temperature was right for it, well below zero.
The chill factor of the wind kept me warm indoors
in my comfortable home with all of its three floors.
As the temperature fell we waited day after day
for the snow to fall which we hoped was on its way.
When my clear skies
Were occupied by clouds
The monotony mixed with
Irrational thinking kicked in
When rejection exchanged her vows
You were their holding faith
Like a dose of penicillin
to a wounded Soldier
in need of relief
Yes, you made a bridge out of
The torn pieces of my soul
Somehow you convinced
The sun to shine once more
You took the weight on my shoulder
And offered me shelter from
The world that swallowed me up
And spit me out like spoiled milk
It’s braw y’are its braw a’reet
Wi’ brilly natchers at yer feet
Tis one fer they an’ one fer me
T’ set tha brilly natchers free
So dinnae mumble dinnae fret
Tha has nae seen yon natchers yet
But when they come as come they will
Be sure t’stand rock solid still
Nae griping an’ nae felly soor
Wie brilly natchers at yer door
Union of partitioned sects
Ten coded commandments
Borrowed from Hamurabi
A heritage to Pharos’ past
Must testimonial judgment
Spectacles without light rays
Come as revelation in voices, sing
And compel me to be born again?
Must mutual friendship be betrayed
By illusions of belief in claims
Of self made uprightness
Oh! Holier than thou outlook
See others as legions of darkness
Assign vain, void and inglorious
Their hearts’ intimate realization?
“I write for self.” The poet often claims.
The scop has not been born who holds this true.
“I care not that the world should know my names.”
These very words I’ve spoken as I grew.
“Allow me but the chance to bare my heart
and all shall be forgiven of mankind
when disregards he will my poesy’s light.”
Such contradiction must remain a part
of every poet base or skill refined
if ego is to be secure from spite.
She dyed he died…
The dyed red haired girls green gloves
came up under her nose, stifling a yawn
as she stared at the sexy designer dressed
girl in the chequered skirt with stunning
eyes all dreamy.
Perhaps she subdued more than a yawn
while her fingers flicked about her nose
giving her face the impression of a kitten
in comfort surrounded by empty saucers,
whiskers all creamy.
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