Happy Valentine Daze, Virgo! What's the best way for you to celebrate the season of love? In accordance with the astrological omens, here's a good suggestion: Write haiku-like poems on scraps of red paper and leave them around for a special someone to find. You can borrow the following samples, adopted from the work of Raymond Roseliep. 1. "mist on my mouth -- air you touched." 2. "I tried to bring you that one cloud in this cup of water." 3. "black raspberries -- your name breaking in the soft burst." 4. "love song: I enter your mirror." To get more inspiration, check here. ~ Ohhhh, Haiku
I love haiku. It is refinement of thought at its finest. Poetically, at least, imho. I understand it to be 17 syllables or less, three lined minimalist verse. I tend to write the standard 5/7/5 form from my old poetry group daze. Thinking of that time provokes a scandalous poetic tangent. One involving rhyme and meter:
Black Widow
I have had
more than one lover.
More than the saints
care to discover.
Here on my hearth
lay the will of another,
soon to be called upon
in his slumber.
10 to a 100,
I think the count is.
I kiss them,
I stroke them,
I lead them to bliss.
Yet, none ever please me
I regrettably admit.
Which leads me to add
one more notch to my bed.
We were to write a poem about a woman. Any woman. I chose my late aunt. Who, if had been a man, would have been known as a lady killer. As I've mentioned in a previous blog, my aunt was not of her time. She reminds me, as I look back on her life, of Anne Sexton.
"Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard."
My aunt and Anne would have been good friends. She was a highly expressive woman and could out sing Patsy Cline any day of the week. I am thinking of her now because I remember vividly being in her apartment eating chocolate hearts on Valentine's afternoon while trying on all of her wigs and high heels. And. Various shades of Avon lipsticks. I was in Kindergarten. And. I have no idea where my mother was. My aunt was going out that night. That's what my mother would later say. My aunt went out often. After her death, my mother found her diary. It turned out that it was the way she had made her living. Avon, however, was a nice cover. I'm not speaking ill of her. No, I loved her unconditionally. She was so beautiful to me.
Heaven, non-judging,
carried her ear to Her Soul.
Whispered, you are Love.