In our mutual agreement of togetherness, I was alone.

the lines on my notebook pages scoff
as they see me writing your name once again


©L.F.

two lines
is not a poem
its two lines
it has no substance
no structure
its a thought
someone caught
is it noteworthy
not in the least
but the person
who writes without
themselves
there not present
here in the moment
of all the people who do such
who think it only takes that much
should give your head a wobble
it's just a load of cobble  
the two lines are just that
like a load of tatt
truly
poetry comes from a calling
a memory
a feeling
is nothing dust blowing in the breeze
you make a mockery of the art
like you just would ****
all over your page
not bleed at any stage
is it because your simply
not smart enough
to have a worthy entry
dig deeper into your soul
if you lack the talent
of this simple art
pray tell
are you worth more than
a **** ?
if you throw art away
thinking you can walk away
then i have this to say
your not an artist
your stuck in self pity
look in the mirror and think
where did you go
or did you just blink
those two lines
bug me more than
any times
i've seen anything else
are your not incapable
or simply not know how
i think you just don't give
the art the respect it so needs
look at yourself
a poem
is not two lines
a thought
a passing
a nothing
this is not your diary
find somewhere else to share
because i for one care
you lay the art bare
more effort should be found
if your words are to be sound.

I am the first line
I am a different line
I prefer the first line
Well you’re wrong, the second one is better.
Nah nah you’re both wrong, line five is amazing.
Can we all just agree that line five is full of it?
Yeah I think most of us can, but line two might
Disagree.
I am the last line

sometimes,
my brain finds solace
on a sweet picnic table -
set up for a short tea,
on tatami mats,
in a garden with half a blanket
of pink-white blossoms
sleeping on the earth.
on such days,
my words settle into
seventeen sweet spots -
no fuss, no muss -
like schoolchildren after a field trip,
too tired and hopefully
too content
to rebel.

sometimes,
my words come to rest
as if my heart and my hands
are all weary travellers,
and i sent them to retrieve riches
that are way beyond
belonging to seventeen neat corners.
and so i apologize,
i call it laziness,
offer some food for thought,
and a warm place to rest
between the
three
simple
lines
of a haiku.