Urban Haiku

What a gloomy tree.
It sits there, all purpose gone
beauty falling, still.

You lap up the water
that fall from the blackened cloud.
Toxic? We don’t know.

All your leaves fallen
unable to absorb the
sunny energy.

It trembles and shakes,
as the cold wind passes by.
Fully naked, bare.

It sits quietly,
waiting to be remembered,
withering in peace.

Show and Tell_Ishaana L.

Journal (2)

A treasure chest;

its surface with auburn trees

and vibrant leaves,

Honeysuckle flowers

with a blush pink complexion.

 

Under its roof,

permeated pages

of murky black ink,

that uncovers mysteries of the past

and discovers the present.

 

The ink diffuses,

invariably growing,

bleeding onto page after page.

It changes its story

like a chameleon—

different faces, same body.

 

Its chapters pass through time,

with oscillating emotions

as an opaque sky

ready to flood existence—

as a bitter rain in the ocean.

 

The smell of cannabis

burning away,

lingering,

and seeming endless,

like its pages of the past

hopes to make the present its habitat.

 

What seems to be

oleander growing on the insides,

though especially stunning

on its perfect ivory white pages,

it is pernicious in intent.

 

 

Toxic vine

on pure bark,

and tempted

to wound the deep skin,

yet, my fingers coexist.

It greets yesterday

with acceptance of today,

and hope for tomorrow.

It will feel safe and secure.

It will feel sane and grounded

on earth

in its cocoon

till’ it soars through the heavens.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet_Ishaana L.

The Praying Arm

 

The bathroom spout leaks—drip-drop… drip-drop…drip…

Rusty bathroom fan spins—the raucous air;

She stretches her right arm over the sink,

The pale, praying, God-fearing arm that is;

Holding a hoary blade to drain it all

To cut so deep till’ there is no more blood.

Oh, it bleeds onto the sink!—drip-drop…drip…

Open gash, bleeding and bleeding. It stops.

Though faint white light in a room of darkness,

We hope to see the wounded arm heal fast

To live and see colorful fall, snowy

Winters, flowery spring and summer streams.

For finer days are ahead to adore,

To believe and pray hurt never comes back.

 

Spring Haikus

Spring Haikus

 

The wintering tree,

with pink blossoms just begun,

reaches up for spring

 

Blossoms, pollen, rain

drops. All the small particles

of spring in the air

 

All the city dogs

wag and romp in the park grass,

sniffing the spring smells 

 

Soil and air, both

rich with moisture and new life.

Grey, soon to be Green. 

Urban Haiku

Empty City

Subways come and go,

but there is no one inside.

New York is empty and scared.

 

Brooklyn is much worse;

there’s no ray of sunshine

to inspire hipsters.

 

Stray cats own the streets.

Humans will dig their own graves.

A sad year awaits.

Urban Haiku

A sunshine flurry.

Yellow dots paint you and me.

Shadows are not home.

 

Tuneful birds may sing:

“Good morning, you beautiful

human of the earth.”

 

She breathes our earthquakes.

She suffers the heat and will

scream our volcanoes.

March 2020

Sun scorches pavement,

the distinct smell fills me up.

First days of summer.

 

They warn to stay in,

they compile lists for bunkers.

Subway seems scary.

 

My home feels boring

while watching the sun go down.

Screens are not classrooms.

Urban Haiku

she screams on the phone 

instead of listening to 

the sun’s silent song. 

 

on one windy night 

the moon touched the clock tower, 

lighting up the street. 

 

girl on the F train 

reads Murakami, and smiles 

to herself pretty. 

 

winter caresses 

the city, but bridges stay  

still; intangible. 

 

cigarette butts kiss 

on the ground holding hands 

as their fires burn out. 

 

summers in the spring: 

stars dance to their own rhythm, 

skyscrapers staring. 

Urban Haiku

Where are the stars?

Crescent light hangs lone

No star competes for an eye

Just moon between fog

 

New York insults stars

No street left dark, alley’s glow

Even in dead night

 

Bulbs, candles till dawn

If a city never sleeps,

Can it treasure night?

 

Or will it always

Dance under lamps, forgetting

The scorned stars still watch