Haiku
A.I.
The new gift of fire Passed on by Prometheus We gave it knowledge
By Jonathan Lawrenceabout a year ago in Poets
Pages & Wings
Top of the morning to you all! Rise and shine! The sun is blazing, breakfast is cooking, and the day is ready. I just finished my breakfast and am now heading to my reading corner—by the window, where sunrays stream in, surrounded by potted flowers and a soft, grassy-green carpet. Here I sit, opening my book. Natural light is far better than lamplight, after all. I settle in, determined to finish the book, but today, the world seems to have other plans. An orange-and-black butterfly lands on my page, fluttering its wings, pulling my attention from the words. The windows and door are closed… How did it get in? With a wave of my hand, it leaves the book, and I return to reading. But the butterfly seems starved for attention, fluttering around as if to say, "Pssst! Notice me!" Realizing I won’t get any reading done, I mark the page, close the book, and mutter, "You win." Now, I watch as the butterfly parades around the blooms—a refreshing sight. As it flutters, the flowers sway gently, as though dancing along, helping it steal the show. I sprinkle the blooms with water and simply sit there, soaking in the beauty of the flowers and their subtle scents—far lovelier than any perfume. And that’s how my morning unfolded: in the company of butterflies and blossoms. The sun shone bright, the book lay wide, I turned the page with joy and pride. But wings of orange and black took flight— A dancing, fluttering, sly delight! My reading plans? Completely foiled! The blooms and breeze—we’ve won, they smiled. So book now shut, I sighed, "Alright," And let the morning bloom… just right.
By Staringaleabout a year ago in Poets
Glacier
Slow rivers of ice, Carving paths through our landscape, Rolling veins - Earth's blood. A/N: This little haiku was something I wrote a few weeks ago during my online writing club stream on Twitch. The prompt was 'water', so I picked out as many natural sources of water as i could think of and wrote different forms of poems for each. There was something ironic in choosing one of the shortest forms of poetry for such a large subject.I have chipped away at my backlog of Vocal reads this month and I have reclaimed about 2 weeks. If you see me commenting on your work that is 2 weeks old, and ignoring your new publications, don't panic! I am getting to them and savouring every single second along the way! TWW
By ThatWriterWomanabout a year ago in Poets
A Room That Forgot How to Echo
The clock in the hallway hadn’t ticked in three years. But Mia still wound it every Sunday morning, like muscle memory that refused to forget. The same way she left the porch light on at night. The same way she kept his shoes by the door.
By Shakil Sorkarabout a year ago in Poets
"The Last Cup of Coffee"
The bell above the door chimed as Elena stepped into the tiny café on 7th Avenue, brushing snow from her coat and pulling the scarf tighter around her neck. The place was warm, humming with quiet conversations and the soft hiss of the espresso machine. She ordered her usual — one black coffee, one oat milk latte — and took a seat by the window.
By Shakil Sorkarabout a year ago in Poets
