Cherry Blossoms Monoku

Click the link above for another “wow” post from Mick E Talbot, in which he combines an acrostic with the monoku haiku form.  I was unfamiliar with monoku (see links below for definitions and example), but it pricked my interest.

Cherry blossoms fall despite my plea…Stay

 © R L Cadillac, 2017 ~ All rights reserved.

Image ~ Pixabay


Poetry Definition of Monoku

A haiku in a single horizontal line.


an icicle the moon drifting through it

Matsuo Allard (Bird Day Afternoon, High/Coo Press, 1978)

~ One line (monoku)

The most common variation from the three-line standard is one line, sometimes called a monoku. It emerged from being more than an occasional exception during the late 1970s.

The single-line haiku usually contains fewer than seventeen syllables. A caesura (pause) may be appropriate, dictated by sense or speech rhythm (following the traditional Japanese tradition of a break, marked by the Kireji[19]), and usually little or no punctuation.

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Portrait of Perhaps (NaPoWriMo 2017-Day 10)

“…our prompt (optional, as always). Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that is a portrait of someone important to you. It doesn’t need to focus so much on what a person looks (or looked) like, as what they are or were. If you need inspiration, here’s one of my favorite portrait poems.”


Beneath those searing blue eyes

Which melt me, I see your scoffing smile—

You think me audacious, call the idea

Repetitive, redundant—that I should

Paint yet another word-portrait of

Artist loved only by his loyal wife, and

Faraway woman who ne’er navigated

Consistently calm waters in anything

Close to a seaworthy vessel.

Perhaps you seek to hide that you’re flattered,

Honored—reckoning my talent equal

To your acrylic canvases, woodblock prints.

Or maybe you’re annoyed, merely an off mood…

I’m too old be be frightened by your irritability;

Walked too many miles on sharp lava-rock road,

Peopled by characters you’d not have spared glance.

Bitter?  I’ve simply grown tough tortoise shell.

It amuses me to watch grown men quake

At the frown on my short frumpy-figured face.

I’ve been characterized as one who

Doesn’t take s–t from anybody—and

Where do you suppose I learned that?

Ah, I see your gaze sparkles Aegean—

Yes, you’re the man quoted as saying:

“I don’t kiss ass for anyone.”

You taught me well, Love—and never realized.


The first 25 years I defended you fiercely,

Took humiliation’s lonely licks.

Then one day I snapped, called you an ‘ogre’,

Agreed everyone else had been right about you.

Time passed…and damn you, you died—

Left me nothing but deafening silent pain;

Alice fallen down well, mutely drowning.

Later the real, delayed grief came sudden,

Cutting through me like daggers of ice,

Tears raining pewter for weeks.

I rallied in the only way I know—

Imagination’s a potent drug, more

Effective than electroshock therapy.


Today I look fondly—heart in full swell—

At your pensive picture…tender memories

Returned and embellished, embroidered

In rich filigree…pulsing with spring’s new life,

Revitalizing ordinary.

Words pour…in every shade and hue,

Of always forget-me-not blue.

I fill lines which may weary readers,

And care not one scintilla.

Nights, your shadow drifts ’round

The room, finally rests beside me—dreamworld

Sifting stardust, embraced protectively.

© R L Cadillac, 2017 ~ All rights reserved.

Image ~ Pixabay

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Lake Delusion

100 Word Wednesday: Week 11

Image Credit: Matias Larhag


It was where we fell in love—I did, anyway; lovely Shangri-la, waters which reflected our private world, mirroring happiness and thoughts of forever.

I didn’t mind that you were older—you made me feel like a woman of the world, and you said I kept you young.  Every day shimmered…the nights, oh how they shone.

Then you were gone—winter descended, became an icecap on passion’s volcano.

I’ve returned only twice since your death.  Peering into the lake, I see an old deluded relict* staring back—tears rippling down her rippled cheeks, like mourning rain unrestrained.


(*relict, archaic—a woman whose husband is dead, especially one who has not remarried)

© R L Cadillac, 2017 ~ All rights reserved.

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