I love Haikus.
First of all, the name itself. Look at it! --> #Haiku. Rolls off your tongue in a rush. How captivating!
Writing is so often like sculpting. It starts as a mere wisp of an idea. A word you read, maybe. Something you said to your best friend. Or something that the coffee dregs in your mug looked like today. Anything. It takes hold then; slowly mutating in your mind's recesses into something beautiful. Or ugly. Or grey. Or plastic. Anything you want it to be. That's the fun, isn't it? It expands, taking on this amorphous life of its own.
Like you, I've often penned my thoughts in prose, verse, staccato sentences. Then stood back to look at it with tilted head. Like a sculptor would, or a painter. More like a sculptor though. That's what you do with your words. With a #haiku. You gently coax them into behaving under your fingers. A little pressure here, smooth it out there. Or if it's stone, you chisel at them Shape here, crude and hoarse there. It's yours. It's also completely his who reads. Or hers. Or its. Everyone's and noone's.
I talk like I'm a sculptor. I've never held clay in my hand, or stone to chip away at. But I have sculpted. For you.
Crossroads
I've waited for him
Here, at the crossroads of life
For centuries now
Mephistopheles
The gravel under my feet
Now is an hourglass.
The waif
Alone she sat there
On the top of the mountain,
Seeing the shepherds
Whistle tunes of joy
As they headed home at dusk.
And darkness took her
The red pill
In the dark he waits
Watching his thoughts take root and
A forest is born.
Alone she wandered
In the woods not knowing why.
But knowing she should.
Until she met him.
The white knight who smiled & said
"Are you ready, Alice?"
In her destiny
Was to wander forever
His forest of thoughts
First of all, the name itself. Look at it! --> #Haiku. Rolls off your tongue in a rush. How captivating!
Writing is so often like sculpting. It starts as a mere wisp of an idea. A word you read, maybe. Something you said to your best friend. Or something that the coffee dregs in your mug looked like today. Anything. It takes hold then; slowly mutating in your mind's recesses into something beautiful. Or ugly. Or grey. Or plastic. Anything you want it to be. That's the fun, isn't it? It expands, taking on this amorphous life of its own.
Like you, I've often penned my thoughts in prose, verse, staccato sentences. Then stood back to look at it with tilted head. Like a sculptor would, or a painter. More like a sculptor though. That's what you do with your words. With a #haiku. You gently coax them into behaving under your fingers. A little pressure here, smooth it out there. Or if it's stone, you chisel at them Shape here, crude and hoarse there. It's yours. It's also completely his who reads. Or hers. Or its. Everyone's and noone's.
I talk like I'm a sculptor. I've never held clay in my hand, or stone to chip away at. But I have sculpted. For you.
Crossroads
I've waited for him
Here, at the crossroads of life
For centuries now
Mephistopheles
The gravel under my feet
Now is an hourglass.
The waif
Alone she sat there
On the top of the mountain,
Seeing the shepherds
Whistle tunes of joy
As they headed home at dusk.
And darkness took her
The red pill
In the dark he waits
Watching his thoughts take root and
A forest is born.
Alone she wandered
In the woods not knowing why.
But knowing she should.
Until she met him.
The white knight who smiled & said
"Are you ready, Alice?"
In her destiny
Was to wander forever
His forest of thoughts
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