Our Shadows: Erotic haiku September 2014

our shadows

cast by the lantern
rise and fall

******

smoke tendrils

curling past my face

his long hair

******

moving in rhythm

lost in the rhythm

we are the rhythm


These were written as separate haiku, but they refer to the same occasion and could be read as one poem.

I am submitting them, on 22 Feb. 2015, to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #240. 

Ghosting

Sitting at my desk,

I feel the gentle flick

of a furry tail brushing my leg.

Both cats have always liked

to get my attention that way.

But the one who is still alive

lies across the room

in front of the heater.

He hasn't stirred all evening.

So I know who.

As I clean the kitchen bench

close to the time for cat dinner,

right above the spot of floor

on which that dinner is served,

I hear behind me a tiny mew.

I recognise it. Enquiry.

Encouragement. The nightly 

reminder (as if I would forget).

'Yes, babe,' I say,
'But you're dead.'

As Time Goes By

So this is what it's like, being 74.

They start leaving,

the ones you love the best, or

the ones you thought

would always be there.

In fact they've been leaving for years,

but now you notice it more.

At home there are just we two

now; I am just an old lady

with her cat. How do you do?

I am the old witch with the black cat,

living invisibly next door to you.

In future years, will it come to that?
Already it's almost true.

The Water-Colour Sketcher

for Claudia Schoenfeld

In her heart is the music of light.

She doesn't worry

about capturing the exact, neat shape

of the cup with the blue flowers;

what she wants is that blue on that white,

and the half-moon swirl of the coffee

glimpsed over the rim.

She is after the blobby orange

of a sunset sky, or a pale lemon moon

reflected in dark water. Her Eiffel Tower 

curls back into distance

like a dancer abandoned to music.

Her motorbike riders, bright red,

rush towards me out of their street

and out of her picture; I see them 

swerve to miss me.

Everything's alive,

nothing is static.

It all sings.

Written in response to a dVerse prompt and the sketches of Claudia Schoenfeld. I was inspired by all rather than one. I would call her art impressionistic, and my response is very much the impression it made on me, with details jumping out from the collective effect. A quick impression — a closer look reveals there is only one rider on that bike; but never mind, I'll stay true to the first impression.