Living Literature
Haikus and Downhill Haikus
Somewhere in the space
concealed between micro and
macro worlds we live
-----
aware of a wide
wedge, unaware of nearly
all the rest whether
-----
within the micro
or throughout the macro planes
of being an M.
*****
The boat contained four
humans and one scared AI.
There was no food left.
*****
When each one of us
becomes a novel,
literature will suffer.
-----
When each one of us
becomes a poem,
poetry could surely die.
-----
When each one of us
becomes more humane,
Earth will be admirable*.
-----
* Admiral (#051094) is a shade of blue.
About the Creator
Patrick M. Ohana
A medical writer who reads and writes fiction and some nonfiction, although the latter may appear at times like the former. Most of my pieces (over 2,200) are or will be available on Shakespeare's Shoes.
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More stories from Patrick M. Ohana and writers in Poets and other communities.
Everything
My love, my everything! That’s it; you’re my everything, and everything includes love. You’re my everything, my love. What more could I say? I think that I said the most important thing there is. The rest of the time, I’ll keep writing you rhymes and sexy stories, pained, of course, that everything between us would still remain only words and a few images. Waiting is time flying that we never get back. I don’t know if it’s a good bet with love. Things happen. I can die. It can happen out of the blue or slowly, but that’s not the point. I could survive but you’ll still be occupied. So, this relationship will always be platonic, with words and images that mean, it’s a little more. You’re my everything even covers what I’ve just mentioned. So, you can forget it. I just wanted to show you what everything means. EVERYTHING for me you are and mean. But why?
By Patrick M. Ohana7 months ago in Poets
My World
Written or reborn Creating my tomorrows My happy ending
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsdenabout 14 hours ago in Poets
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson5 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
This was so creative and wonderful! I loved it!