A mackerel sky fillets a fish scaled village,
an ear clapping, full sailed, fog
moors itself to the rooftops,
then hides all in a breezeless blear.
Rheumy eyes peep out from nets,
damp noses sniff abaft trawling drapes.
Cloth in hand, potbellied proprietors
battle the splatter and spray,
dabbing at mildewed shelves,
warding away slopping waders
and salty puddles.
On the sightless sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
fog horns are lowing like lost cattle.
Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks,
hauling hands will rope together
the tide-tossed salvage
by and by, squeaky boots
may trudge to taprooms
where codgers and callow alike
can be well oiled
and duly quenched.
In a log cabin out in the Wild West
Many tumultuous years ago
A family cuddled and found sweet rest
By their potbellied wood-burning stove
A tall candle burned bright in the window
The harsh, cold wind beat upon the door
Everyone had done their evening chores
And now had circled the warm wood stove
A golden glow filled the old log cabin
All were safe and secure from all fright
They sang favorite songs of love’s refrain
Well into the fierce and stormy night
God is witness to the good life therein
That tiny room, by human measure
But it was more than a cabin to them
It was a mansion filled with treasures
For under this roof, a family dwelt
Genuine love filled their grateful hearts
More than a thousand books could never tell
Of such love that never tears apart
Sticky melon juice
Drips down potbellied toddlers
Dirt and dust encrusts
The wood is too seasoned, the grain hoary.
the moppet has grown insane,
its wood now riddled with timeless lies.
A cat in a dark corner will not look at it.
Mice cower under its grim shadow.
In a twilit kitchen an old man mumbles
as he gums a boiled egg
while deranged eyes peer through walls.
Pinocchio is old,
he has been set on a hook.
fibrous sinews dangle
from his notched frame.
knotted veins grind together
inside the oaken cage of his chest.
Made to imitate and deceive
he has become what we dare not look upon:
a hollowness within a dead core.
In the potbellied stove,
logs pray with crackling flames
hope to never become that thing
that hangs and glares,
a wood wormed ruination,
its painted adolescence flaking now
to a crackbrained fantoccini
gone feral.
Trusting almost got me killed,
Love hurts more than I can imagine,
And being real still got me hated.
The street has never been rosy,
The potbellied men got money for election malpractices
But can't feed the poor masses.
Today they supply us with guns,
Tomorrow they expect assassination,
Why should I kill my brothers?
When I have illiteracy, poverty, lack and tribalism to murder.
The older I get,
The more I understand that it's okay to live a life others don't understand.
If words don't add up,
It's usually because the truth wasn't included in the equation,
This might be the lie through which I tell you the truth.
The wood is too seasoned,
the grain grown hoary.
A cat dozes in a corner of darkness,
it will not look at the puppet.
In a twilit kitchen
an old man grumbles.
His joints are dry, they creak
as he gums a boiled egg.
Oak eyes open wide.
Pinocchio is old.
Stringy sinews dangle
his crotched frame.
Hollow veins grind
inside the sullen cage
of his breast.
Made to deceive the eye
he has become what
we dare not look upon.
Soon the wind will thump
the cottage door.
In the potbellied stove
crackling logs pray
never to be that thing
that hangs and glares all-seeing,
like a painted moon.
Once there was a Sultan,
Known for his able body of vazirs.
Any problem, the vazirs were ready with solutions.
Now, there was the problem of malnutrition:
The whole sultanate seemed to suffer.
A vazir suggested doubling the quantity of pulav.
Citizens grew potbellied
And the Sultan was happy!
Yet malnutrition persisted.
The Sultan and the vazirs
Thought so hard and so long
That, like proverbial Laputans,
They forgot the problem.
So did the citizens and the media.
No problem!
Then, there arose the question
Of quality of education.
A vazir had a bright suggestion!
Detain the learners for one more year hereafter
And that would settle the problem.
Yes, that settled the problem—of unemployment.
But soon a citizen asked in a feeble voice:
“What about quality?”
One vazir, a returned fellow, quipped:
“Quality died with the Gessler brothers!
Don’t you know?”
Everyone laughed—as if they understood!
— Ram, R. V.
"Nice to see you again", said
Mosquito to the Blue-bottled Fly
"I see you are well-fed"
"Thank you", replied the latter. "I
Returned recently from a big meeting"
" What meeting? The CONFAB?"
"Yes. What a bout of feasting!
There was so much blood on the slab!"
Softly stroking his proboscis, Mosquito said: "I don't know about you
But I prefer blood that comprises
Vitamins and nutrients, fresh and new." Patting his robust belly, Fly asked: "Where can I get such?
Would that mean waking up early?" "Yes", replied the other. "Pretty much.
Just stick with me, I'll show you the difference
You are yet to see
Human blood is a whole new experience!" "Thanks for the offer, but
I'll stick to the butcher's venison. With him, I have an honest cut
Human blood is sacred - that's a reason!"
And with that, Fly flew away
"Potbellied fool! Who better than myself
Knows its value? I'll go on my way
And let him find out for himself!"
My town nicknamed, ‘Mini Dubai’, burgeoned and branched
on the bank of Kanoli canal like a tamarind seed.
Now the silvered canal sprawls on its death bed.
Busy pedestrians walk down
an ancient bridge built by the British.
As the traffic light has lost its eye balls,
a potbellied policeman dances and controls.
Jalopies groan, and modern cars whiz.
A long whistle: an ambulance with the wounded
and a van with the wedding party halt side by side
as the southern and northern hemispheres
of emotions meet at a single point.
Nostalgic smell of the canal sops in the sizzling tang from a cafeteria.
The splurging women whirl in the hurry wind among the concrete
buildings seething under the tanning rays. The stink of sweat and
the aroma of the Arabian perfumes choke the air in shops, where,
sometimes, the chicanery peeks through the glassed. The
applications drafted in blood and salt scurry to the offices nearby –
only to get the obsequies in the waste baskets. The sots creep like
snakes in the yard of Snadra Bar.
A crow sits on an electric post and watches all beneath
with a smile of wisdom
Outside, Lucifur the cat curls up under the heat lamp and sleeps
until you can feel hot bones through fur and skin. She's a heat-
seeking missle, as much as Jennifer is forever flashing too hot.
But on coldest nights wood is split, fire is lit and we three cozy
up, chatting and purring around the potbellied wood stove. We
daren't replace it with an air-tight, since Gramps bequeathed us
his potbelly just before he died and turned stone cold.
Kindle, enkindle,
Ignite light on winter's night --
Add fuel to flame.
Written Nov. 7,2015 by Doug Long, for scott thirtyseven's Haibun Freestyle - Poetry Contest. Copyright (c) 2015 by 2815699 Canada Inc.