At the 7-Eleven

Long line. He will get there before me.
Swing past the aisle. Don’t hesitate.
Make good time and beat him–quick!
Silver cylinder slung,
air in a can hung…
tube in his nose?
Eye meets eye.
–back up–
slow.

{This is for the prompt at Real Toads–Fussy Little Forms:Nonet. The nonet is 9 lines in a pattern of descending syllables. 9,8,7…1. These little forms are so much fun. This one is based on a personal experience about a month ago.}

Nautilus

Shell, Edward Weston (1927)

see
sea
vision
whole jewel
wave after wave hides
you in a swirl of sand below
reach of ready hands
souvenir
obscure
chance
pure

{A Real Toads prompt based on the photo above. The form is the Fibonacci. The number of syllables for each line is based on the first six numbers in the Fibonacci sequence (starting with one) 1,1,2,3,5,8. Here, I reversed it as well.}

Music at Work

Sometime around midday, I pause.

My mahogany desk is so shiny. It’s always marred by fingerprints.

Beyond this dark wood is a wall of brightness. A live background mural of clouds and sky and trees. Silent and untouchable. No one who is busy with accounting notices.

I can’t help but study the living movement of the palm fronds. I hope no one sees me.

My co-worker is blaring gaudy pop songs for the whole office to hear. But I have my own music– a soaring melody for listening ears only.

I imagine this…
slender leaves are fingers
playing piano.

{This is my first attempt at haibun. I didn’t have one about dusk, which is the dVerse haibun prompt this week, so I am going to use this for Open Link Night #218. }

Dead Leaves

The trees here in the south,
though half-turned from the season,
are still every shade of green.
Moss sways in the cool sun,
casting black and gray shadows
that move like snakes
on my neighbor’s white roof.
He is unaware of their charm,
but they amuse me so.

My home is silent,
but every now and again
a sound like hailstones startles me
(even though we are frost-proof).
Hard, dead leaves are falling,
but what my neighbor sees
is soft and brown and orange.
It flies past his window
in a sudden gust of winter wind,
silent and secret.

Galilee

The gulls are fighting over clams in cakes.
Among the yawning cracks of rocks, we walk
as delicate as dreams when one awakes.

Chowder in our bellies, stomach aches,
we’re locals who will want to stroll and talk.
The gulls are fighting over clams in cakes.

We watch the widowed, white-capped wave that breaks.
At Galilee extends an arm of rock
as delicate as dreams when one awakes.

A cloud of witnesses surrounds us now and takes
some photos of the greedy, gathered flock.
The gulls are fighting over clams in cakes.

The bolder the gulls become, the fewer mistakes,
taking possession, eyes like steel and chalk,
as delicate as dreams when one awakes.

Crumbs of pity, for orphaned gulls’ sakes,
are tossed by innocent tourists. We locals mock.
The gulls are fighting over clams in cakes
as delicate as dreams when one awakes.

{This is my first attempt at a villanelle. It was inspired by a memory of feeding clam cakes to seagulls at Galilee, in Rhode Island, my home state.

It was also inspired by a recent reading of Psalm 73 (which I believe to be a beautiful Psalm, and which is one of my favorites, despite its imprecatory tone).

Finally, it was indirectly inspired by one of my favorite stories from childhood—Jonathan Livingston Seagull, by Richard Bach}