Too True

Tears talk,

telling tales too tough to take.

They threaten time trying to triumph,

then terrify those that think too thin.

© LaRonda Moore

Haiku 06

Love is consuming,
I give you me selfishly,
Nothing else matters.

© LaRonda Moore

For Every Poet

This is for every poet,

those published, unknown, or don’t know it.

For the spirit within us that is both

tough as nails and delicate as lace,

and the talent that often goes to waste.

For the late nights when all we have are our words, paper, and a pen,

and our journals and notebooks that more like a best friends.

For the hearts that bleed verse,

we have been blessed with this curse.

We are the unsung

for every line that creates it’s own song.

Yes this is a poet’s plight,

but we won’t be reduced to the validation

of a like.

© LaRonda Moore

Image Source

Wednesdays

It’s two minutes before the end of the day and Zak is counting down the seconds to freedom, because unlike any other kid in his class, Zak hates school. He struggles to fit in and is often last to be chosen for any team.  In fact, the only person he has managed to develop a relationship with is Mr. Scott, his hipster bus driver, who always takes up for him when the other students are less than friendly.

But the usual woes won’t plague Zak today. Nope. It’s Wednesday, and his grandmother picks him up on Wednesdays.  That means he has nine unsupervised minutes between the ringing of the last bell and grandma’s arrival at the house directly in front of the school.

Today he doesn’t have to form a line and march to the bus.  Instead, he gets to leave out the door with the “walkers”.  Quickly he scurries along the side of the building to the open lot.  There, he hops in a puddle and wonders what stirs in the shallow woods just beyond the fence.

© LaRonda Moore


[178 wds]
I love comments and welcome feedback!
Inspired by FFfAW Challenge #100
Photo courtesy of Jessica Haines

My Me

I feel filled empty
amid shallow height.
Trapped,
on the diameter perpendicular to touch.
Searching,
for the cool of a pacific wave,
while awaiting a calm that I have never known.

To find it,
this place in me,
to find it,
is to find My Me.

I need to be there,
where, lost leaves collect to converse,
where revelations reverberate
and inhibitions emancipate.

So at two seconds from insanity,
when I am suspended in a silhouette of shadow,
I will visualize invisible shackles,
and hear freedom ring as the caged bird sings.

For at the very moment,
that I find this place,
my place,
my me –
which shapes like Victorian architecture in autumn,
with a bashful grasshopper in my heart,
finally,
I will know peace.

Finally,
I will be
Me.

© LaRonda Moore