The Rise of the Lower
Haiku Writer's Challenge
The vermin in square
How dare they tell bitter truth
As if they know it
***
How dare better stare
Say may I and perfect it
Bow makers say what
***
Truth or dare the sport
Functions high know thy purpose
Door shut on puppets
***
Clarity never
Is a bitter doubt because
There is none here too
***
Time divides the want
Creeps opportunists to watch
Sea encapsulate
***
Brought to rise bitters
Never does wine water hope
Symbient grapes know calm
***
Fortunes ride no more
Secret dips in water front
Power punch a girl will you?
***
Eighteen years counting
Time capsule makes hard or soft
Futures tide plenty
***
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About the Creator
Canuck Scriber L.Lachapelle Author
Published Poet and Author. Making rainy days feel like Sundays with words.
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Free Form Poetry
The love of poetry begins at insight. Making the known or the impossible to know appealable to the senses. The pure expression of an art form in words. The perfection in simplicity or complex subject matter shining through. The early bards knew it so did Walt Whitman, T.E. Hulme, Richard Aldington, Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot, to name a few. So if meter and rules have you going cross-eyed relax in the sphere of thought and let it roll. Let's not forget this classical approach to poetry.
By Canuck Scriber L.Lachapelle Authorabout a year ago in Poets
Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (4)
That was a great set of haiku. Very well done!
Love that image and using haiku as a sequence, brilliantly done hopefully a Top Story
Quite the series of haiku you wrote ❤
Nicely done.