I ... entered the poem of life, whose purpose is ... simply to witness the beauties of the world, to discover the many forms that love can take. (Barabara Blackman in 'Glass After Glass')

These poems are works in progress and may be updated without notice. Nevertheless copyright applies to all writings here and all photos (which are either my own or used with permission). Thank you for your comments. I read and appreciate them all, and reply here to specific points that seem to need it — or as I have the leisure. Otherwise I reciprocate by reading and commenting on your blog posts as much as possible.

11 April 2009

Friday (April Challenge 10)

Prompt: Friday

Friday’s mad.
The writing day, the busy day.
Wake, he makes me coffee,
I go straight to my computer
without getting dressed.

Haiku on Friday at MySpace.
I post a new blog
(week after week
the haiku of my life).
It may or may not be a fine example.

By the time the rest of ‘em
run with the topic
adding their own slants or digressions,
there’s a conversation,
a game, a dance.

Over to LiveJournal: Friday Haiku.
Friends there wanted one of their own.
I tried but couldn’t replicate.
It’s set up in a different way; you can’t see
the whole sequence at once – no flow.

So I gave it away to Deb
who wisely left it alone
to fend for itself.
But I still post there,
and read, and comment.

Omigod look at the clock.
How did it get to be 11 already?
Under the shower, quick,
then grab a huge morning tea.
I won’t get lunch.

Gather my stuff for WordsFlow:
notebook, spare paper, pens, timer,
writing exercises and prompts,
afternoon tea supplies.
Drive to the Neighbourhood Centre.

Pick up the key from the office,
sign for it, check with the staff
if there’s milk in the Ebb Tide room.
Open up, turn the jug on, get out the cups,
turn on the aircon (maybe), put up the big tables.

By this time the mob’s arrived.
They pitch in and help.
Some have brought food.
They talk so hard and laugh so loud
clattering their chairs as they settle,

that I have to yell for order.
They tease me and grin
but they’re eager to start.
This, they tell me repeatedly,
is the highlight of their week.

We listen to what we’ve written
since last time. Sometimes I recite
my morning haiku, just to prove
I’m still writing too. We love
each other’s work. We say so.

The time goes fast. Tea break (I gorge),
smoko for some on the side veranda,
then reassemble to write.
It’s the Natalie Goldberg method
from “Writing Down the Bones”:

Write anything, keep your hand moving,
don’t stop. I set the timer for 5 minutes.
Afterwards we read around the table.
Whoever suggested the topic starts.
Everyone’s free to say, “Pass.”

We touch laughter and pain,
anger and love; we embrace
diverse opinions and beliefs.
Self-denigration isn’t allowed
and swearing’s practically compulsory.

(Well, it is my group,
and I’m a bit of a dag
and a lot of a rebel)
and suddenly it’s time to conclude.
Everyone helps with the washing up.

Then there’s the evening.
Blog. Check the haiku site.
Dinner. The news on telly.
Check the haiku site. Blog. Fall into bed.
Friday’s mad. I love it.

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