March Madness #DVersePoets #HaibunMonday

My sister and I are taking about family and afterwards I write about Wonderland. The way in which it frightened me as a child when Alice falls, and fall, and falls, and falls, and all the while the world is whirling upwards, downwards, outwards in patterns whorled inside each other like carnivorous flowers, too consumed with consuming each other to notice she is screaming.

Someone asks me if I’m mad, without asking that specifically, because you know, that would be unkind. I tell her I’m not delusional. Reassure her, don’t mention again the shadows I keep seeing out of the corners of my eyes, my white rabbits flitting out of sight each time I turn. Put it down to an over active imagination. Tell myself the same.

Spring plays peek-a-boo,

the white rabbit’s ears twitch twice,

I am clinging on.


Early Morning In January

The plastic widget wakes me. Pressed into my flesh, nerves along my arm dead and heavy against the sheet. Asleep in the way the rest of me should be. Instead the rest of me is restless, and churning. Feet, clumsy, hit the laminate like dumbbells. Followed by ankles, calves, thighs, hips, waist, breasts, shoulders, neck, head, arms, wrists, hands, all sleep stricken and wonky. They uncrumple reluctantly, each one an exercise in memory, coordination. Rag doll woman with sand-bag limbs.

In the bathroom I want to lie my head on the edge of the bath, lean it there until the room stops spinning, until my skull lightens to a point where my neck is not creaking. Instead I dig my fingers into the composite. Notice again how it bows out too far. The edges don’t fit flush. There are marks where the veneer is chipping. I fit my body in much the same way. Badly. Not at all. But that’s nothing new. It’s time to check the clock, count the hours left before I need to be somewhere, be someone, work out how to function like a human again.

Night came in too soon,

Day did not have time to clean

all the cobwebs out.


I now remember why I don’t wear that particular pajama top to bed anymore.

Tonight Kim is at the helm over at dVerse Poets Pub, and she wants us to write about what January represents for us. Unfortunately I tend to find myself wading through treacle at this time of year, and the long nights don’t do much to help.

This piece actually fits with the Rag Tag Community’s daily prompt for the day lumber.┬áThis was somewhat unintentionally but I hope they don’t mind me adding a ping-back for that prompt as well.

I almost added the following haiku at the end of this piece but decided not to as I felt the other went better with the theme of the Haibun.

Sun comes in new sizes,

fun, mini, small, and absent.

Only out in glass.

In the end I know that the blue patches are only temporary, but at two a.m, with a dead arm, a bruise on my shoulder, and my head spinning, that sort of thinking takes a bit of finding.