For Ronovan’s weekly haiku challenge.
spring struggles
with winter gloom— we share
bright buttercup light
Tag: Ronovan’s challenge
Haiku challenge: Forest & Whisper
I was about to post this on Monday morning when we lost the Internet. Posting now in a brief window of connectivity…
A tanka for Ronovan’s weekly challenge.
tree silence
is the forest’s breath
birdsong its call
we listen and learn our
voices no more than whispers
Haiku: Gratitude & Harmony
A senryu trio for Ronovan’s weekly challenge.
gratitude
is a virtue man
is sadly lacking
peaceful harmony
as difficult to find as
a world leader’s heart
hope
as illusory
as his promises
Haiku challenge: Zen & Chaos
A tanka for Ronovan’s weekly challenge.
parting the tangle
the discord of pointed noise
anger subsides sinks
root-swallowed where dead things go
peace falls feathered and petalled
Haiku sequence: Hope & dash
For Ronovan’s haiku challenge.
green hope springs
as we hurtle to the edge
a wolf howls
in the wind
the odour of decay
yet beetles dig deep
wolf-howl beetle-delve
two worlds on the cusp of night
and forgetting
Haiku challenge: Plucked & Played
Siting out the next round of cooking, letting some of the others deal with it.
Haiku for Ronovan’s weekly challenge.
wind plucks a tune
from blossom laden branches
plays the song of spring
Iberia
This painting, Iberic by Carmen Herrera is proposed by Ronovan as a springboard for a poem. I didn’t know her work, but these colours are quintessentially Spanish.
Iberia
arid as African desert
but the blood red clots
never quite dry
leaving black-stained memories
hammered like nails
into skulls
living and dead.
Tanka: Serene & Scene
A tanka for Ronovan’s weekly poetry challenge
sky-mirrored clouds float
on placid lake water
still as oil—heron
beneath the flooded willows
wades streams wild with spring
Toxic garden
Rising to Ronovan’s challenge to write a poem based on The Garden of Earthly Delights triptych by Heironymous Bosch.
They were not so naïve in those days of mass misery and oppression, when grotesques crouched in every doorway, and famine lurked at every winter’s end. Not so naïve as to believe in Heaven without Hell, master without slave, and the divine right of mad despots without the servitude of the poor.
Even then, the world was a teeming mess of futility, navel-gazing and lotus-eating. Paradise is solitude, the quiet of nature. The end, coming soon, to screens all around the world, is Hell and the final madness. So sophisticated and worldly-wise, are we, yet we will fall into the same pit of screaming darkness as the leprous villeins who feared the incubi and succubi of their dreams and that the sky might fall upon their heads.
Scream to the sky
the rich and powerful
are not listening
Jane Dougherty Writes 