Playing With Lines Of Five #DVersePoets

Tanka – Deception

The vines have curled up

till she’s dressed within their arms.

Astonishing green,

to hide all the stress fractures

now spider-webbing beneath.

 

Kyoka –  Toil Of A Water Witch

Ginny Greenteeth waits,

washes out last week’s litter

from her pond weed hair.

Snatches a plastic bottle

like she would do a child.

Ginny Greenteeth is from English folklore, and depending on your region her name can change from Ginny, to Jenny, or a number of other nom-de-plumes. It’s also the name used to refer to pond weed, or algae covering a pond’s surface and obscuring the water from view. She apparently lurks below the cover of the pond weed waiting for passersby to wander too close, so she can drag them to their watery depths.  There are perhaps some waterways that wouldn’t be particular pleasant to skulk in these days.

Gogyohka – After The Storm

We eye the horizon like a child,

question our certainty that the crying is done.

Slowly, we return ourselves to the garden,

we peg the washing out while watching clouds,

remind ourselves not to trust a blue sky.

 

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I’m uncertain if I did these forms justice, but I’ve had a go at all three. My Tanka, and Kyoka follow the 5,7,5,7,7 syllable count mostly because this was what I was most used to. I know it’s not technically correct, but it gives me a framework to fit into. If you have a favourite out of the three let me know in the comments below.

Summer Ashes

The sun has turned most of the garden crisp, stems crunching to dust between fingers when I dig in between the leaves. Still, the lavender stands as it should, scent sticky on my skin, determined to be carried home into the house. Its flowers haven’t faded yet. It doesn’t seem to bow to heat the same.

But between the lemon tree and dahlia, the herbs have taken refuge in the shadows of a water butt. There the decking still burns my feet by afternoon and moisture only lingers a little while upon the soil before vanishing. One by one they will succumb, no matter how often I tend them.

Eventually night

falls across this place and time,

soaked in the day’s heat.

Still this garden will shiver,

weeping for the storms not come.

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