Project Anomaly

BY: NIC HANNAFORD

A haiku has three

short lines, syllables going

five, seven, five. Done.

One soft look at the

life of nature and beauty.

Lonely little frame.

Profound, they are but

a cold, blue-flowered hologram.

Effigy of life.

Nothing lives docile.

Scavenger crows pick their meals

Off dead memories.

Paint your false picture.

Come to me when it comes to

Haunt your ideal.

Haiku your way to

Delusion. Cry your crystal

Rivers. Paint with words.

A cloudburst rises

In tune with your dissonance.

Sing to her, lovely.

Arrowhead mountains.

Boom. The sky shrieks in loud light.

Pointed tips no more.

Can’t you see yet, boy?

You describe her as product

Of nature’s soft womb.

Yet she is vicious.

Vile. A top contender for

The war on anger.

She is sharp beauty.

Embryo of nature’s heart. Her

Wrath personified.

Earth quakes. Winds spiral.

Her breath is belladonna.

Your sweet story: Done.

Who told you to write

A poem of nature and

Expected softness?

Weatherboards pray for

Safety while they protect what

They exist to shield.

Roll all your green hills.

The feather floats daintily

Down the languid stream.

Sculpt a poem’s truth.

Typewriters only know

The flower’s whisper.

A haiku has three

Short lines. All ignoring the

Spines of her crown.