All Of The Sudden You’re Twenty-nine, Standing On The Sidewalk Barefoot Before Bed, And The Crickets

a writing prompt in the form of a haiku

“I’m not a villain!” 

Spat darkly through gritted teeth;

Tears salting their cheek.

Rainbow with a Black Pen

Crimson flash of pain

rusty orange dried blood

golden sun on sidewalk,

edged by mossy mud.

Clear blue rolling tears;

I crumple to my knees.

Indigo grows twilight

and violet my grief.

Santa Muerte, Our Lady of Holy Death

What Makes a Man

What makes a man

Is being gentle

When we’re irate

It’s being humble

When we are great

It’s finding love

Amongst the hate

What makes a man

Is supporting one another

Building each other up

Picking up the pieces

When everything goes toes up

It’s shaking hands

To heal rifts

It’s being generous

With our gifts

What makes a man

Is helping friends

And making amends

It’s recognizing mistakes

And fixing them with haste

Boys may fight

But men do what’s right

That’s what makes a man

Joyous tears, the river of progress, the trail ever on to freedom, the themes, the motifs, you get it.

The mile-long rainbow flag being carried down First Avenue in New York City.

AIMEE WAI

Alphabet of pretty words

Ambivalent, Brine, Crone, Delinquent, Ever, Fervent, Gallant, Hollow, Iridescent, Jagged, Kalimba, Loom, Mosaic, Null, Opal, Petrichor, Quasi, Rescind, Solve, Timber, Undulate, Verdant, Wind, Xylitol, Yearn, Zonal

Dreams to have while walking home from the library

I read of mangroves, coastal forest far away protection against monsoons, a gnarled seawall –  nature standing up against its watery cousin who would sometimes threaten death when cousin cried and overflowed with tears.

But mangroves are far away, small black and white image printed on trees so far from arboreal, trunks whittled down and forced into a single, bleached dimension to serve such a purpose now as to show a photo of a mangrove.

Just as flat and white, but the moon seemed closer that night. Closer than mangroves and monsoons. Back down to this autumn scene, now the maples stand burning all crimson Maroon leaves.

Monsoon trees. There is life here and now, then there is life in pictures and words. Our minds catch both in one fell swoop and they dance together in their captive company, lightly stepping but sometimes intersecting in their closeness – the impossible twirling of stony boughs become a nest for the granite moon, immobile limbs graced with the agility of dreams. Fancy flying one thought to the other, closing the distance and realizing two worlds mingling in an elegant, chaotic embrace. Mangroves holding the harvest moon, from both the truth and I so far, but so beautiful.

The world may be in crisis, but the mulberries are ripe, and they taste just as good as ever.

The world may be in crisis, but the fireflies came out at dusk yesterday. And they will come out again tonight, and tomorrow, too.

The world may be in crisis. But today a breeze stirred my hair and cooled my face, and it eased the heat of the summer sun and I took a deep breath and I breathed.

The world may be in crisis, but a stranger smiled at me, and a dog found a good home, and a toddler told his baby sister he loved her.

The world may be in crisis, but the world still holds people who are working to heal it.

The world may be in crisis, but there is still a world. And the world contains us, the world contains love, the world contains beauty. And the mulberries are ripe.

There is still a world.