5 word poetry

Can you write a five word poem?

Post yours here!

Here’s mine, it’s called ‘The Poem Where The Title Is Longer Than The Poem’:

Love can be too late

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I am the shadow

I am the shadow

I am the sorrow and you are the night.

I am the fingers and you are the sight.

I sleep awake and you drain to white.

I am the shadow,

You are the light.

 

I sing to the stars and it sounds like a scratch

I marvel at mars and wish I could catch

the next plane to space where I’d orbit the earth

the one that’s your home but is not in my heart.

I wish that escape was as easy as this;

of writing these rhyming and lyrical lists,

I know you don’t like them I can’t blame you much;

when you follow your ego you slip out of touch.

So goodbye here from me, and you say goodbye, too,

goodbye in my heart and hello to the new.

I’m leaving, I’m going, I’m arriving at once;

My journey has started. I’m officially gone.

 

I write from the moon. I made it at last.

There’s not one soul up here,

my self floats on out.

The stars are reminders that we’re all the same,

we’re caught up each one in the same selfish game.

I’ve come to the moon but I didn’t escape,

the feelings inside me still heavy and awake

every morning, or ‘mooning’, as it could be called,

when this rock turns towards our own fiery ball –

It’s not ours, that’s an error; it gives life to us,

yet we can’t think it knows us, can’t doubt it’s numb.

It’s flaming gas, you know that, no more and no less;

there’s no boon pretending it holds us as friends.

Hello to the earth there up above,

I’m rolling below you and don’t feel your love.

Goodbye all you people who once I called kin,

I’m a moon person now, my new life can begin.

Take only what you need

Take only what you need

Ground below me, behind me, beneath me,

Come up and meet me.

Sky above me, around me,

Let me touch you,

Let me feel your winds.

Trees before me, with me, after I am gone,

Know your strength and forgive us.

Blessings in the air,

Come land on us and enter in our lungs.

Spores and cells and micro organisms,

Strengthen each other,

Love your symbiosis.

Hurt and pain,

Do not enjoy your hosts,

Take only what you need and let them go.

Bright orange beaks

Bright orange beaks

a gaggle of geese swam close to the shore

my binoculars befriended them and i was surprised

i could see their every feather

i felt i could even see the mites and friends they carried everywhere.

probably not, probably my eyes deceiving me; no, my interpretation of my eyes.

the edge of the lake is green and brown, the texture like a cake topped with soft fresh grass from a fairytale, from an oasis, a dell amidst the urban sprawl.

‘help me’

i whispered under my binoculars, their weight increasing and my wrists angling down so all i could see was the twinkling lapping water, pulsating and smiling its empty smile at me

the geese scooted through my view, a head, a side of soft white, their passengers forgotten as my eyes blur and my muscles forgetting their hold as i sag back and roll onto the grass beneath me.

i’m lost, can they see? can they see me at all? what is their impression of me?

i think if i knew it, i could share it, and relieve the view i hold of myself.

my eyes closed, the geese stand over me and gently tap and peck with rounded beaks on my forehead and cheeks and one on my lips

there’s no algae here for you, there are no snacks, that’s my mouth!

they don’t know that; i let them probe. i let them peck until it feels sore and i’m bruised and sure that some of my skin is raw

‘they can’t know what they do’ – it’s an automatic thought, and one i stem the flow of immediately. these geese know just what they do

observe their cleanliest white and softest down, their bright orange beaks and their individuality shown glinting in round, knowing eye

leave me close to the shore so that i might roll in slumber towards the waters, the greeny browny murky bowl will hide me. it will erase the unknown troubles i can’t bely.

Inside the noise

Inside the noise

yesterday there was a dream on the radio.

a boy had found it in the night, and it haunted him to the extent that he made himself bold and took the house phone out into his den outside.

just within range, he dialled the number of the radio station (he’d always wanted to know a story big enough to tell).

‘hello’ the person said, and ‘hello’ he replied, then began to cry and, with no introduction, regaled his dream.

it had been a green world where the people lived like the intelligent beasts they were. they jumped and hid and picked and slid, and everything was made for everyone alive. there was balance, and freedom, and technology, and fairness, and peace. there were funny questions, and the people were obsessed with these, trying to relieve the unknown and confusing.

some people looked at big things, some people looked at small things, and a select group of people looked at cats.

these people turned out to come to the answers much quicker than all the others, and began to copy the cat.

they hunted, they killed, they played with their prey and teased it and tortured it and kept it all a secret from the non cat-watchers, until one day they decided they were proud of all this, would show their kill to their family and elders. the elders were dismayed. what was this abuse?

but the cat watchers carried on and on until the beasts began to fear all human creatures. there was separation.

in true dream-like fashion, the world became a metaphor and things fell apart; the wallpaper of the surroundings peeled away, the sky turned to static, the water mere lines of crayon.

there was nothing to drink. nowhere to go. the edges drew in, and behind the edges was nothing.

the boy sobbed. he whispered into the phone,

“the sky’s shapes kept us in, we were trapped, until the fuzzy noise came upon us all and we were in it, inside the noise, and we couldn’t hear each other any more. we couldn’t see the small things, or watch the big things, and everyone was bumping in to each other and fighting and then it was the end.

“when i woke up i couldn’t see, and i still can’t see through the noise. please, you have to cut it up into pieces’

the reporter listened and, suddenly, could hear nothing but static. his voice went out in waves, like drawing a finger through syrup. and he knew what he must do.

A large and gentle beast

A large and gentle beast

i drive to the edge and look down, through the passenger side window

i crane my neck, i crane my body and i see the turf abruptly end and the scraggle of rocks below extending out of sight.

it’s like someone pressed _cut_ and pasted the land somewhere else.

a bird soars up, away from me. it’s not even using its wings, the air carries it like a large and gentle beast.

more follow, wheeling and calling and gracefully white.

i stay in the car but my soul soars out the air con, it swoops up and my stomach is brushed by the wind.

my back becomes damp as i raise into the clouds.

it’s home

I Am: Joan Ray

I Am: Joan Ray

hello. i’m joan ray. i bet you think i’m a woman, but i’m a man. it could be a mispronunciation thing but i think someone did a spelling error on my certificates at birth. it’s no matter now, i’ve lived my life of twenty, plus twenty, plus twenty years in joy because of the surprise i’ve brought to people with nothing more than my appearance.

“here’s joan!”

“oh, what a lovely looking son!”

that’s if they were lucky enough to be blessed with fast response times when it comes to hiding their true reactions.

well, guess what i ended up doin’ for a career. go on, try.

nope, i was a florist! that’s not quite true, actually. i grew flowers for florists. quite an art, i can tell ya now.

people saw me as akin to my farming family and neighbours, but truth be told, there’s not much of farming in growin’ flowers. more like cookin’ to me. slow, slow recipes and chemical reactions that will make your jaw drop. this tiny little dot i start with goes green, goes like a piece of string with a bendy backbone, always chasing the light like it really wants to meet its source. i think the plants saw the sun as like a parent, you know.

then one day, quite unexpected (if you run on a different kind of wavelength), BANG! these colourful gifts pop out from the tight green ball that had been lurking on the top of the green string. sometimes lots of them, and i liked to take a magnifying glass to my flower patch on a day off and just observe their fractal magic. ohhh, it was sweet.

some of the flowers were like little cities that had grown themselves up outta the earth, with all this life on them. i let that be and it dealt with itself. seems all those little aphids are part of the process. them ladybirds and ants get food from them. and the birds like those. so i let it be.

‘nursery’ is another name for a flower patch, of course. really, they are like children in that you raise em up from nothing, but at the same time you cannot tell them what to be, and you have to wait for the blooms to open themselves. my role was to make ’em as bright as they could be, then take them when they were ready – to die for some human’s enjoyment.

it didn’t make me sad because they were beautiful for days after cuttin’, if people kept ’em right in a glass vase or so.

anyhoo, my flowers led me through forty or more years of my life, green fingers i have still, and now i sell the living plants, everything must go. i daren’t lose all this, so i pass it on now.

my last wish is to be mixed up among all them seeds of different shapes and colours and sizes and textures; like pebbles on a beach or cells in a body.

yeah, i wanna be mixed through all those seeds and scattered, to grow with them one more time.