Large coffee to go, please,
extra fire and brimstone.
And a chocolate sin-filled doughnut.
It’s going to be one hell of a day.
Author: donnadakota
Displacement (Bargain Basement Haiku) Postcard Poetry 2015
I love you most in the height of summer
when I lose you in the sun
only to find you
somewhere else.
Unconfirmed Miracles (Bargain Basement Haiku) – Postcard Poetry 2015
She is the saint of linoleum,
scrubber of sins,
hunting for hidden halos
in the scuff marks
of apostles.
Heart To Heart Combat (Bargain Basement Haiku) – Postcard Poetry 2015
My finger hooks the pin
of the relationship grenade,
itchy to detonate
the cold war between us.
But the curves of your lips
trigger into a kiss,
and I raise the white flag.
Surrender.
Turns Her Skin Green (Bargain Basement Haiku) – Postcard Poetry 2015
She wore his conversation
in the holes of her ears,
where his nonsense dangles
like cheap costume jewelry.
Submission (Bargain Basement Haiku) – Postcard Poetry 2015
She licks the words,
Lays claim to the story,
Smudges her lipstick
With the sacred taste of hope.
Swimming Against The Current (Bargain Basement Haiku) – Postcard Poetry 2015
You are the first fish I felt leap in my heart,
The last breath I lunged for
In the deep dive.
Savage
He bites the heads off my words,
Tosses the tails,
Turns my conversation
Into mere snack.
(Guerilla Haiku)
SHADES OF HADES
She calls this place “The Devil’s Workshop,” asylum of idle hands and unkept promises.
A sarcastic travel agent issued her a one-way ticket in a vintage handbasket, not the best mode of travel on an empty stomach.
Who knew the junket would entail steamy back roads paved with good intentions gone incredibly bad?
But wasn’t that always her luck?
She seemed to forever place her last five dollars on a snowball’s sucker chance.
And now here she is, employing female fury to open up damnation in this awkward place she calls “The Devil’s Workshop,”
Arriving uninvited,
Searching her pockets,
Empty as always,
Surprisingly annoyed
That hell must be paid.
M Is For Vendetta
Tonight the moon seeks pure pleasure.
It is an untamed satellite unleashed on the night.
Ever since The Big Bang shoved it into the waiting arms of Earth, this perverted rock of gas and dust has envied the blue-green planet’s “joie de vivre.”
By its very nature the moon is an introvert and brooder.
It cannot help itself, overcome as it is with elliptical envy, held captive as it is by overwhelming gravity.
It has become Earth’s nocturnal voyeur, sighing over tides, going through phases, parting the dreary curtains of night like some shameless peeping tom, leering at a life it can never have.
But tonight?
Tonight the moon is self-indulgent and full of itself.
It will defy science and explode into myth, no longer an orbiting object but a formidable force.
The fetid hair of werewolves will stand on end in salute to the
victory of fur over skin.
Bats will launch out of belfries at the stroke of midnight
in blitzkriegs with weapons of rabies.
Wolves will sing feral karaoke in primitive harmony
in backwoods bars.
And lunatics, human lunatics, will dance their
fandangos of fits born of frenzy.
For on this evening born of change and madness the moon declares its vendetta, taking back the night with no hostage or demand.
Copyright 2014
Donna Dakota in Word 