The Thylacine

From black to gold to black to gold to black
Adrift in the worn brush of wild’ness past
Not seen, not heard, not pawed upon soft grass,
No prey to catch, to chase through pitch and burrow,
The rotten stump, a boarder jet and blond,
No more remunes, for breath and sigh is lack.
Unseen amidst the wood and leafed wrack,
No rush to feast, no rush to hide from row.
Transfigured now but on a yellowed sheet,
The gold made white, no longer fur but line,
An acetate and alkaline marked brine,
The only echo left, long past last bleat.
Unless the beast still prowl, one fight is all to show:
A frayed print against forgetting’s undertow.

Late Night Haiku X

XXVI.
Hope erodes at times
To the loneliness of truth,
But it does not die.

XXVII.
Autumn leaves pass by,
Season grows shorter briskly now,
Oh! To slow the end.

XXVIII.
A stream bubbles, faint,
As my thoughts like water flow,
Will they come ashore?

To Tell A Story

I've been feeling in a reflective mood the past few days. I decided to write a letter to a friend reminiscing about a nice event last fall. It was going to be about a one page letter — in fact, I thought I might handwrite the final draft (I'm convinced handwritten notes are still preferable to typed in many respects). Well, that ain't happ'n. I said I was in a reflective mood, right? Well, I was really in that mood — the one page letter turned into a five an a half single-spaced page story (4,100 words). As is my usual mode of editing, each attempt to pare it down makes it longer. At times, my words can be like Tribbles (good thing I'm not a Klingon).

In other words, I'm wordy. Very wordy. It is at times like these, I wonder how I ever manage to meet the 600 word requirements for an op-ed… It is also at times like these I wonder if maybe I really should get into politics. Seriously, I have been known to win a debate solely on the fact that I can keep churning out words until everyone has grown tired of debating with me (of course, I'm right, which helps).

Late Night Haiku IX

Regularly scheduled programming really should resume tomorrow.

XIII.
Frogs croak softly, softly.
Day has passed and night is here,
The day fades away.

XXIV.
Decisions to make,
Should not always wait fore're
But what should I do?

XXV.
Though the crickets chirp,
The silence is deafening,
And time rolls onward.

Late Night Haiku VIII

XX.
A cricket chirps soft,
The wind blows slowly forward,
Summer almost past.

XXI.
A lonely feeling,
Wishing to hear your voice now,
Instead, cicadas.

XXII.
Sleep conquers my eyes,
I shall drift off again soon,
Morning comes quickly.