Three Haiku

As many of my readers have surmised, I enjoy writing haiku.  It is a form that comes easily, easily enough that I don't have to waste creative energy struggling to keep to the form.  That makes it a good tool for jump starting my poetical processor when it doesn't seem to want to start (or jump) at all.  A couple weeks back, I attended a short haiku workshop.  We were given a very simple prompt, winter, and a very few minutes to write several haiku.  Following are three haiku I created that day.


Roof Leaking Haiku

Monster wind, sky dumps
gallons; front makes tropics cold.
Roof leaking again.



Boardwalk Fog Haiku

Palms bent, sand swirling...
Cold mist blankets the boardwalk.
No clue what's out there.



Night Sky Haiku

Night sky blinks starlight
heavenly bodies zoom toward
morning's dread waking.

Roof Leaking, Boardwalk Fog, and Night Sky Haiku are © Stephanie Mesler 2019

Now Haiku

Now Haiku
By Stephanie Mesler


Courage is needed
when change is the choice, starting
out in the dark - now!

Itching to begin
destination uncharted
first steps, first breaths, buzz-

Energy mounting
scenery changing within
quick as without- now.

Mystery beckons,
offers diversion from then,
slam shut the door - swoosh-

The past is not real,
the future not yet, being
transpires in a flash!.

No point in wondering
what will come next, when all you
can know is the now.


© Stephanie Mesler 2019

Scarlet Woman

Scarlet Woman
By Stephanie Mesler

Painted toes
beneath undulant
hips, swathed in
counterfeit
coins sway the siren's rhythm.
Red, blooming motion.

© Stephanie Mesler 2019


Poetic Form: shadorma 

Be The Sea Fair Or Foul

Be The Sea Fair Or Foul
by Stephanie Mesler

Floating separate, idly chatting, side by side over the glassy pool,
lazily stroking, we move forward in tandem, no need to look at one another.
We trust in forever and focus on fluffy clouds, imagining the heights,
We do not notice our feet are no longer parallel.

Drifting apart, the distance grows between us as the the water roughs.
Reaching, unable to clasp hands, we rise higher and drift farther with each swell.
We see one another only briefly when we both crest at once.
For a while after you are completely out of sight, I hear your cries.

Sinking alone beneath the waves, I fight to rise above the tumult.
Grabbing at spume that vanishes as my hands slice through it, I bawl out your name.
Down I go, spiralling with the maelstrom until my back slams into sand.
And there you are, already lost, eyes black, skin pale, not the friend I thought I knew.

Drowning, underneath 326 million trillion liters of water, we are reunited in stillness.
I take your hand, allow one last look at you, the friend who abandoned me to choppy waters.
A gasp before the sea goes still and the world goes dark… And then there is nothing.
We, two, are no more.

© Stephanie Mesler 2019

Deep Breaths

Deep Breaths
by Stephanie Mesler

Breath is an entitlement,
reward for being born,
for waking up each day,
putting one foot in front of the other.

Breathing is to Deep Breath as being alive is to living.
You can do one without the other, but will it be worth the effort?
Breathing begins with a baby's first cry
and continues without ceasing until it doesn't any more. 

Deep Breaths are a luxury
to be found in the silences
between the movements of concerti,
before largo gives way to prestissimo.

They do not like to be found.
Deep breaths hide behind Aphrodite
and under Hokusa's azure wave,
within the well of O' Keeffe's second Petunia.

Deep Breaths are not obvious.
They are not givens, available just for asking.
One must make room for deep breaths,
clear out the clutter that makes us pant.

Deep Breaths can be found in the window seat
or under your grandmother's quilt.
They are in the wide open, beside rivers,
and in musty caverns kept sacrosanct in the dark.

Deep Breaths take a little effort,
sometimes a steroid pill or two. 
They require a slowing that doesn't come easily,
and patience to clear out allthe crud.

© Stephanie Mesler 2018

Outliving A Friend Who Should Have Lived Longer

I'm still here and she is not. 
She was the friend who wasn't a friend for a while ...
until she was again.
The friend who made me consider the depth of friendship...its endurance. 
She broke my heart and then helped to rebuild it. 
Together, we learned that love damn well does mean having to say you're sorry.
We learned that, sometimes, that's enough.

She was the friend who reminded me that love can be punctured...
wind can blow right through it.
That's when you expect it to fall...
but the holes actually make love stronger.
It can withstand fury.
Together, we learned that love will bow without falling.
 
Tsunamis came and rivers raged across our landscape.
We were as a raft, tossed and turned,
sopping wet, but still useful...
still crossing the sea, headed toward land.
Together, we learned that love floats.

She was there when my life ended.
No, not my actual life,
the life I lived. 
And she was there when life started anew. 
Actual life carries on in spite of the deaths we experience.
We carried on together, even when the life we shared was done,
ever in one another's hearts,
ever on one another's minds. 

And then one day, she was gone.
 
In some ways, nothing has changed.
The sun still rises and the wind still blows.
The sea continues to creep across the world.
I still think of her...
I still love her.
But nothing will ever be as it was. 
She would tell me that is as it should be. 
"Change is the reason we exist."

But this is a change that came too soon,
a lesson I do not wish to learn. 
I'm still here and she is not.
She was my friend. 

© Stephanie Mesler 2018

Time For A New Poem

Time For A New Poem

By Stephanie Mesler

This is me, writing a new poem because it's time to commit poesy.  I know it is, because it's marked in my day planner.  2 PM on Monday afternoon--- "write a new poem."  It's not even in pencil.  I've inked it in between an appointment with the oncologist and tea with my great Aunt, who will, no doubt arrive on time with a bottle of something sharp to add to the tea, so I'd better get started.  She tells me the poem will be payment for her company.  So I am writing...a poem?...sort of.  Or maybe it's just an essay, a plain old boring essay about how poems do not submit to scheduling, no matter how determined the poet.  But no, this has to be a poem... doesn't it?  Because poems are about fleeting things, thoughts and feelings, colors, and odors...aren't they? Of course, sometimes they are about deep things, like water and philosophy, but in a poem, even broad subjects are to be detailed with brevity.  That's what poems are, or so I was taught -- thoughts expressed or stories told  in the barest bones of language.  It's like building scaffolding around a tower that already exists, then, knocking down the tower, leaving only the framework around it.  The scaffolding is the poem.  A skeleton of sorts that, once, surrounded living flesh.  No, that's not quite right.  The skeleton itself lives.  If I do my job well, it will dance a graveyard jig... which is truly an awful metaphor for a gift I'll offer a 92-year-old who tells me every week the newest poem might be the last poem I write for her.  So, now it's 2:45 and the doorbell will no doubt ring just before three.  I need to lay out the cups and the saucers, the ones with the little hand-painted flowers, and the silver spoons, the assortment of teas in many flavors, a bowl of real sugar cubes, and a pitcher of milk.  No one will touch the sugar or the milk, because tea should be drunk black and strong, but I'll put it out anyway, because I was raised by an Aunt who believed in doing things properly and now is not the time to start disappointing her. 

© Stephanie Mesler 2018