In the dead of night, A nightingale sings aloud; Ants crawl near the nest.
Bighorn sheep combat! Simultaneous headbutt; Lamb runs down mountain.
Two glasses of wine, Enhance festoon laid table; Violinist plays…
BEASTS OF BURDEN
Alongside the barn, Harnessed Oxen stride forward; Axe lays near the shed.
Stratus clouds above, Combined with misty morning; Warm tea rests on porch.
On a cattle farm, Dog’s bark alarm Steers to flee; Red fox walks away.
Monica St Hillaire: Aspiring Writer – Writing has always been a passion of mine. Compiling words together will always be a challenge I shall withstand. My desire, to be the best Wordsmith I can be. A lover of traditional and modern Haiku, a field I hope to one day master.
Willow I hide in you Where the pale winter dwells Waiting for light to come again Darkest Nights cry In silent solitude for love Once held in softest hands Come again love Call me
Stripped by winter’s darkest rays I lie in sorrow’s deep embrace Tears erupt fill empty days Disappear in rising haze Light comes again in unknown ways Stripped by winter’s darkest rays I lie in sorrow’s deep embrace
WHERE LIGHT IS BORN
Stuck in The damp dark earth My fingers scrabble cries Rising silently to heaven The veil Is torn By unimaginable pain I dwell in the darkness Where light is born Screaming
Call me As the snowdrops Die in pure innocence While the wild winds roar their rage Holy Sacred Is the silence now as death comes Sighing in the stillness Of the last breath On earth
Come lie In my sighing Sadness caress me now As I breathe in woe my last breath Leaving Behind You whom I love dearest of all Whisk me to the darkness Quickly now cry No more
In sun’s Pure light blinded I see an open door With the eyes of my heart softened By tears Gently Dancing with the stars in my eyes Gifted to me by love Unseen unknown Before
My name is Lorraine Lewis. I have always written poetry but began to write more in earnest following having serious advanced blood cancer and going blind and becoming wheelchair-bound. I greatly enjoy experimenting with different forms of poetry, preferring the shorter forms.
Tina Stewart Brakebill is a former history professor and (twice) published biographer. Now she spends her days writing for a local magazine and her nights scribbling flash fiction, travel essays, and haikus, including pieces for The Drabble and Pure Haiku. Find out more by visiting her at www.tinastewartbrakebill.com.
A man entered the bar, He appeared to be moving like a sailing boat, tacking against the wind. With trouser belt above the waist, he stopped, swayed back upon his heels, and taking first position in a dancey sort of way, he did a little plié. He ordered a pint of snakebite, a Guinness, and a crème de menthe, then having downed the lot he proceeded to sing, from the La Marseillaise. Pulling down his trousers, like a man possessed he waved his bits about, and bending down to touch his toes he struck a match, and lit a massive fart. A blue flame shot all the way across the bar, causing scorching damage. The crowd erupted in spontaneous applause, and cheers of joyous laughter. Then it seemed almost in the blinking of an eye, he had disappeared. The man had left the bar.
Pay attention boy!
I entered a competition to write some prose and duly sent in my entry whereupon I received a reply saying I should have sent three, which reminded me of my school days which were spent mostly looking out of the window daydreaming.
The teacher would gain your attention by throwing a heavy wooden board rubber at your head which would land with a crack and bring a tear to your eye, on reflection I’m amazed more boys didn’t suffer from concussion.
It was the norm in those days for the teachers to have carte blanche to inflict any number of corporal punishments from a slap across the knuckles with a ruler, a whack on the bottom from a size 11 plimsoll to the full-blown six of the best with a bamboo cane.
The strangest thing though was having to say, “thank you Sir” after being beaten.
It could always be worse!
My life of late has not been great, I’ve had an awful time. My wife has left, the kids gone too, I don’t know what to do. This tale of woe began a year ago, when I sadly lost my job. No money left to pay the bills, I foolishly turned to crime. How hard I thought to rob a house, I’ll try the one next door. I dressed in black and took a sack, in which I put the swag. They say that crime it doesn’t pay and sadly, they are right. For now, I’m serving thirteen months, in a dingy prison cell I must say life inside is not all bad, for I’m now a prison wife. He’s not perhaps my ideal mate, but in here you don’t say no. If I behave, I’ll be out soon and make sure I don’t come back.
Joe Wells is a retired actor, he has a radio play Dulce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori produced by the Wireless Theatre Company, a book of plays, one called The Battle of Barking Creek and illustrated children’s books published for sale at Amazon.
clear moon on cold night traveler without shelter shadows walk on snow
clouds part as rain slows garden seen under new light stepping carefully
empty tree branches silhouetted in the mist moon wakes as fog clears
high above river eagle soaring on updraft cedar clings to cliff
stars bow to rainfall leaves drink in welcome relief hope alive in dreams
the path of water journey of many unknowns each drop returning
Ken Gierke started writing poetry in his forties but found new focus when he retired. This gave him new perspectives, which come out in his poetry, primarily in free verse and haiku. He has been published at The Ekphrastic Review, Vita Brevis, Tuck Magazine, and Eunoia Review. His website: RIVRVLOGR
quilted clouds steel gray so dreary makes me weary menace in the skies
the skies predict moods blissful thoughts within my grasp I applaud nature
bare trees sway wildly fragile limbs weak and timid timber plentiful
noise assaults the air crows convoked a committee gossips voice concerns
Eugi’s Causerie – I enjoyed a dedicated career in the insurance industry for over 20 years being rewarded both professionally and personally. Now it’s time for me to follow my dreams by doing things I enjoy…spending time with family, traveling, writing poetry and encouraging others to pursue their goals.
Editor’s note: The following haiku and senryu are the very first pieces to be showcased here on The Short of It. I’m thrilled with the response so far and hope to publish these exclusive pieces frequently! For those interested, please keep them coming! And please do share the submission guidelines with individuals who you know enjoy writing micro-poetry or very concise stories and wish for some recognition of their work! Thanks!
’Pon Love’s carousel Life’s tragic symphonies played Many broken hearts
As Wild Horses Run
As wild horses run The blithe spirit in his soul Sets him ever free
Searching for release Unhinged in dreams’ dark madness Finding no escape
Goff James is a grumpy eccentric who, in the darkness of night, plays with words and tries to write poetry. His work displays an interest in that which can be seen and unseen, that which is heard and unheard and all those things that go unnoticed in between.