She was sick of all her degrees
She had so many
She felt shallow
She really wanted to be more square
More like the others
Stop shaping herself to perfection
A never ending story
360 was just too much
The constant distance to her centre bothered her
She longed to be more square
Euclid had given her a straight jacket
No way to be straight
Regular she was
But square she couldn’t be
So she started scratching herself
Little by little
Piece by piece
Until one day
She managed to round a corner
Here’s one (of many) that I really liked from yesterday’s prompt: A Mirrors Reflection by Soulstructuredlines.
I have tried
being bored to death
so many times
I can assure you
it doesn’t work
I gave up
being fully engaged
every now and then
it might work
The #NaPoWriMo prompt for day 13 invited us to write a poem in which the words or meaning of a familiar phrase get up-ended. I’m totally looking forward to where that led the other participants, I think it’s a fun prompt.
Since I wrote an elevenie instead of a haibun yesterday, I offer you two beautiful examples from fellow participants. I love Benita Kapes poem because she managed to keep it short and still totally fit the brief: Haibun clay birds. The second one is Cherry Tree by Nastasa’s summerblues. Her poem makes time stand still for a moment
By Angela van Son
When Victor entered the afterlife, he kept on writing.
He wrote stories
with happy beginnings and happy endings
He wrote poems which oozed joy
He wrote television shows that were hard to watch
(too many belly laughs is exhausting)
He wrote to his grandparents to thank them
for all he learned from them
He wrote letters to his parents, explaining everything he felt
(he knew they wouldn’t read them anyway)
He wrote a love letter to himself
He answered it
Victor kept on writing
The love of his life
was also the love of his afterlife
After a comment yesterday that started with ‘poor Victor’, I realised he deserved some more words.
Victor was a boy who liked to write stories. He wrote everywhere he went. He wrote at school, during his lessons. He wrote in the bus. He wrote when he visited his parents.
Victor lived with his grandparents. He liked to show them his stories, and every once in a while they would read one of them. ‘That’s not much of a happy ending, is it?’is all his grandmother ever said. Grandfather corrected his spelling and grammar.
When Victor got older, he asked his parents to read his stories. They explained that they couldn’t digest words, only images. He asked his grandfather if his parents were illiterate. Grandfather said ‘no, they just don’t like to read’.
Victor never gave up. He wrote and wrote. His spelling and grammar became impeccable. Still his grandfather would only comment on alleged mistakes. Victor once asked him what difference grammar and spelling made to the quality of a story. Grandfather refused to look at him and yelled ‘you should know that by now’. Victor just wrote another story.
Grandmother kept wishing for happier endings. He once asked what that meant, a happy ending. She couldn’t explain it, she had only been taught how to complain.
Victor turned into a man who liked to write stories. He wrote poetry, he wrote prose. He even wrote television scripts for a while. His parents always admired the director.
Victor never got angry. He just wrote. His last story was about a young woman who murdered both her parents and her grand parents. ‘That’s not much of a happy ending, is it?’ his grandmother said. She never read his last words. He had chiselled them into the spotted marble himself.