Haiku Whispers

Words sail on air

landing upon ears shoreline

evil ghost ship.

Organize paper.

Organize words of story.

Reader’s Reward.

Love is a magnet

lodged within another.

Invisible pulling.

A snake is a snake.

Lie of feathers and of feet…

A snake is a snake.

Waterfall of words

splashing loose on the page

upstream masterpiece.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/organize/

The Spicy Earth

The fire in earths belly is spicy.  Spicy on the soul.

Like breathing, a mouthful of hot sauce,

then gasping, gasping, in a burning panic.

A force swirled around me, like a cloud of ink.

If hatred could take shape, if anger found form,

it would be the black smoke.

I asked the burning fog if it was sorry.  Sorry it was evil.

Black garbage bags, shredded on barbwire, whipping in the wind.

Lava orange eyes, full of rage, with no lungs to yell,

seared its gaze into the theater of my mind.

Like the hum of an electrical transformer, it ‘whoomed’ and ‘werewa, werewa”ed,

its tale of hatred.  It burned my mind, like a spicy nightmare.

A crackling hum, of violent energy.  The forever evil,

was soon spat out of my mind.  Yet, the choking smoke hangs,

over all of the earth, without sorrow, full of hate.

Even now as you read,

Millions of angry fingers of forged in dark smoke,

grab sweet hearts, and turn them black and spicy.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert

 

 

Life

 

A giant wooden circle spins.  Old drawings of children riding on animals and laughing, cover the center hexagonal pillar.  The roof is like an ornate hat for a spinning round house.  Wood shaped into framed swirls and borders.   The paint is faded.  This ride has been on the Earth for some time.  An old group of people occupy it.  The music plays, yet the looks of blind joy, knowing sadness, and silent fatigue hangs on the face of the riders.  A voice booms over their heads, the music fades, the lights dim and the ride stops. They make a line, some are wailing, and trying to hold on for one more time around, but when the music stops, everyone must leave.  They begin walking slowly our of sight. The exit gate is closed as new group populates the circle.  Riders sit on plastic animals impaled with vertical poles.  The frozen faced beasts of burden drift up and down, limited to their evolution, or their design perhaps.  The moment is brief.  The ride starts.  The ride ends.  As the gate closes behind the old riders, children run to the animals, laughing and telling their own stories of how it all works.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/carousel/

The Litterer and the Lover

A  disastrous lonely beach, dies under a blight of trash.  The ocean tries to massage the weary shore, but its wet fingers, spill more garbage.   An old woman picks up trash and puts it into her giant empty purse.  A man finishes his sandwich and throws an empty foil wrapper at her feet, “You realize your wasting your time!  Lady, no one cares about the environment anymore.”  His bouncing laughter seemed to drown in the sound of ocean colliding into the sand.

She slowly picked up the foil wrapper and put it in her purse.  As if speaking into the wet sand, her voice rolled, rhythmic like the old ocean, “My love for the Earth and nature, is not defined by the amount of other people.  If I am the last one who loves, then I will be welcomed to rejoin the soil as a friend and not rejected as trash rotting on top of it.” She hobbled along the shore, each step worth four or five pieces of trash.

The man walked a few paces towards his car the was bleeding oil beneath it, and then hurled his empty paper coffee cup into the ocean.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert

Metal known, by the meddle shown

Hallowed void creates a vacuum, and in that desperate pull, one chooses do meddle.

Tell me, scholar of my life…

Enlighten me, one who has intimacy with my circumstance…

When did I in fact hire you, as my handyman of my life?…

When in history, has one chose to meddle, by request.

Dear lost soul, perhaps it is time, to meddle within your own void.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert