Tag: 2020
Haikus about being overwhelmed (9-15-20)
I am overwhelmed.
Being pulled all directions.
I am exhausted.
I’m going to hide under my bed.
Don’t get enough sleep.
Schoolwork has taken over.
Too much stuff to do.
My attention being spread too thin.
Clutter baring down.
There’s too much junk in my house.
My life needs cleaning.
I have too many things in on my plate.
Ghost Hitchhiker (2-15-20)
It was late at night, far into the winter, and deeply cold outside.
The snow fell steadily, blanketing all and sticking.
Then, the snow stopped and the temperature rose.
Just enough to make-wet the streets
And make fog rise from the ground.
I was driving my pickup truck; headlights on.
The fog was so dense I couldn’t see 15 feet in front of my own bumper.
I drove slowly down country roads,
Watching for ice and monsters alike.
I hit the outskirts of town, traffic driving by me from the opposite direction.
I turned a corner to see a semi a ways away,
Its headlights illuminating a man crossing the street,
And pausing to stand in the middle of the road.
The distance between the semi and I closed,
And as the glowing beams of our headlights touched,
There was no longer a man standing there.
He was gone, completely.
Disappeared into the fog or the night,
Making me suddenly truly believe all my Grandfather’s stories
About ghostly hitchhikers on the road at night.
Coffee Shop Coven [7-27-20]
I should start a coffee shop coven; girls only, no boys allowed.
We could have themed aesthetic outfits:
Weekends black and gothic and macabre,
Tuesdays and Thursdays for whimsical floral dresses and sun-kissed skin.
Mondays and Wednesdays for battle armor and weapons of war.
Fancy Fridays for formal wear, also known as the
“I poisoned my second husband for his money” outfit.
We could gather and talk and plot and laugh and scheme and cry and debate.
We could meet at midday and dance in the sunlight,
Or meet at midnight and kiss under the full moon.
We’d trace sigils in our cappuccino cream with our spoons,
And build tiny replicas of the pyres they’ll burn us on with our wooden stir sticks.
By day we’d pick herbs and make men love us.
By night we’d have séances and kill our enemies.
By day the right hand, by night the left.
You need coffee for both; long days and long nights.
Steaming Kettle [7-27-20]
I gather pinches of the various dried herbs and flowers from their various jars and pouches. My mood today is out of body; distant and detached. I open the tap, filling the fat hollow of my kettle with the cool water of the well. My days have been blending together. I have cravings that can’t be satisfied. I smell my earthy fragrant mixture, stimulating something in my memory. Lavender blossom, chamomile, raspberry leaf, rose hip. Valerian root, orange peel, sage, and mint. Most from my own garden. I need something; a physical touch, intimacy, violent passion, and passionate violence. I watch the honey drip from my spoon and pool in the bottom of my mug, which reads “Pretend this is the skull of my enemy”. Gods what it would feel like to be a warrior again, to know the feel of a man again, and to bathe in blood instead of the crisp waters of spring. I use an old short sword to stoke the embers inside the wood-burner as my kettle begins to whistle and scream. The boiling water in my mug, causing intense clouds of scented floral vapors, the taste of which does something to clear the fog of my mind.
Poetry Magnets [7-25-20]
Remembered this was on the whiteboard in my study. Got real drunk a couple months ago and did some poetry magnets. Yikes.
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