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Late Night Haiku XXXVIII

By Tim Butler | Posted at 23:39

CVI. For a MacLeish poem
Concerning grief history:
Ah, the maple leaf!

CVII. The still empty box,
The note stored in the drawer,
The roaring silence.

CVIII. For the leaf fallen,
Sits still upon the porch step —
The kind bench, empty.

Late Night Haiku XXXVII

By Tim Butler | Posted at 0:41



Late Night Haiku XXXVI

By Tim Butler | Posted at 23:12

C. The cat sleeps soundly.
My lap is his bed tonight.
My legs sleep under.

CI. Tomorrow's journey,
Takes me down old, well known roads,
For unknown stops.

CII. The crickets chirp now,
A last song before frost gives
A cold curtain call.

Late Night Haiku XXXV

By Tim Butler | Posted at 0:12

XCVII. How I wish time might
Flow back that too soon spent time
Could relive the day.

XCVIII. Softly, I watch it,
Soft focus, unfolding, yet
Still left too folded.

XCVIX. Indian summer —
The weary flowers' last dance
Before frost's sharp blade.

Late Night Haiku XXXIV

By Tim Butler | Posted at 0:24

XCVI. Sometimes the silence
Is less fearful than the sound.
Yet it is not kept.

XCVII. The end of a thing —
Unexpected expected —
Reassesses all.

XCVIII. What of different
Views of the same time and place?
Oh, that they would match!

Late Night Haiku XXXIII

By Tim Butler | Posted at 0:27

XCIII. Funny how things can
Happen when you least expect.
Listen as they occur.

XCIV. The rain flows about,
Washing away dry old thoughts,
Inviting new paths.

XCV. Time now past by us,
Invites us to see present.
Let's go forth, forward.

Late Night Haiku XXXII

By Tim Butler | Posted at 0:28

XC. Soft wind of mem'ry
Blows by, though the other may
Forget what remains.

XCI. Ah! For the happy
Twist of plot to be placed by
The playwright's kind hand.

XCII. But to hope for what
Is but memory, not twist…
Such hope is tragic.

Late Night Haiku XXXI

By Tim Butler | Posted at 1:39

LXXXVII. Time is dripping slow,
Stalactite of memory,
Not there, but past then.

LXXXVIII. Memories of joy
Build upon the memories
Of sorrows now past.

LXXXIX. The past is the block,
Which with desire mortared,
Builds story and song.

Like a Dream You Came to Me

By Tim Butler | Posted at 0:59

Like a dream you came to me,
And trod along the gentle path,
Like a dream you spoke again,
Said what I had once hoped to hear.
A million sighs like filled balloons
Flew pleasantly southwest and high,
Blown fast by kind old Zephyr's touch.

The old familiar visitant,
The ache that's spanned the years and years,
No longer welcomed, nor its lack
Did sting as we today ambled.

The birds gathered and sang just like
A merry band of strolling lutes,
But not outshown by the kindly Sun,
Who poured and splashed his golden rain
Upon your hair (each strand repaid).
But your smile accrued double.

So why am I again attended by
The milky form as though conjured?
Well paid, I do not owe again!
Your golden glow will pay suffice!
Why then do I again feel poor?
Surely, though it was like a dream…

But, oh! There was no like — only a dream.

O Bitter Muse, Oft-Present Visitant

By Tim Butler | Posted at 23:13

It has been awhile since I posted any of my poetry. This poem started to form in my mind a few weeks ago. Like Cassandra of the Greek tragic lore, the gift and curse of the poet (even a bad one) is being all too aware and yet unable to change things. Poetry is a form of catharsis; I think anyone who writes poetry reaches a point of nearly bursting in which the pressure can be relieved through only the writing of verse. Yet, my goal is never to release a poem for only that reason. I hope that this poem captures something more.

O bitter muse, oft-present visitant,
Thy inspiration bids for solace, “Write!
Alas, all peace you assault and fast destroy.
Old dreaded guide, your fetid breath does creep,
Oppressive reminder of soft and tender times,
Of memories now past, the fading light.
Look not on me cruelly, oh Tragedy.
I called thy sister, Love, yet you arose,
O bitter muse, no more! But let me pour
Between your fingers fast, as water drops
A drop into the seas of time, fading,
To escape your hell filled ways less scathed.
You, like a plague, unhindered, ‘cross the land,
I sue, but you war ‘gainst me ceaselessly.
And so I practice my mysterious craft,
Assuming now the poet's gift and curse,
A sponge, I sop thy flood as best I can,
By grace of God, may I someday be rung,
And rest upon His hand, again be dry,
Before I drown in the e’er rising tide.

Incidentally, as it flowed, I found I had blank verse (unrhymed but metered). I do not write in blank verse typically, but it seemed to fit the mood of the poem.

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