Daily Haibun, August 16th – Monday Blues

Mondays are blue. I feel restless and lost. Anxious about anything and everything. Everything feels meaningless and not worth the effort. I soldier through as best I can. But when evening falls, however much I’ve gotten done. I feel lacking in every aspect.

Rain falls like tears do

Filling my heart with sorrow

Stuck in Monday blues

© RedCat

Read other Haibun’s written for the monthly dVerse prompt by me here.

Read other Daily Haibun’s here.

Tears Out Of The Eyes Of A Doll – A Trimeric Poem

Tears out of the eyes of a doll
Thrown out, forgotten and forsaken
Feeling unloved, abandoned and small
Life no longer by touch awakened

Thrown out, forgotten and forsaken
No longer cared for at all
Left cold and weather beaten

Feeling unloved, abandoned and small
Laying ditched and shunned
Lost in better times recall

Life no longer by touch awakened
Waiting for eternal darkness to fall
Brings tears out of the eyes of a doll


Written for this week’s Sunday Muse

Written in the Trimeric form, with a rhyme scheme of Abab bab aba baA, where a capital denotes a repeated line.

Also shared to Promote Yourself Mondays at GO DOG GO CAFÉ.

Cat Searching High and Low


I opened the chest with spare linens today
In it was the old blanket Puck the cat loved
I must not have washed it after he passed away
Because directly came Pika to sniff and purr
As if drawn by years old scent
Her body language telling me she wouldn’t be deterred

Later she searched all over the house and yard
As if wondering where he were
Demanding entry to places she’s normally barred
I let her into both closet and storage shed
Letting her do her futile search
Knowing the longing singing in her head

It’s like when I come upon traces of my father
A photo, his name in a book
His old faded shirt I still have in a drawer
And my heart instantly fills with that old sorrow
Prompting me to search to make sense of the loss
Knowing whatever I do, he won’t be there tomorrow

Now Pika and I sit gazing through the window
I scratch her ear, she settles on my lap as the sun fades
We both know however much the wind blows
Our longing for a lost one will still be there tomorrow
Ready to awaken at a sight or whiff
Piercing our hearts anew like an arrow


I read the Poetics: The Print the Whales Make prompt at dVerse. And knew directly about what I would write. Even so the sorrow still hurts. But it also feels good to share it, something I was never allowed to do as a child. I first wrote “strangely feels good”, until I realized grief is something that’s supposed to be alleviated by sharing. 

So instead, let me say how intensely grateful I am to finally found a way to share it, and people who don’t shy away because I do.

Puck lying in the book I’m reading.

A Dirge For The Drowned – April Ekphrastic Challenge

Jane Cornwell

In the gray dawn light
A floating sound
Coming from the fishermen’s bight
A dirge for the drowned

A floating sound
Washing over the seashore
A dirge for the drowned
For love lost forevermore

Washing over the seashore
Like swashes of tears
For love lost forevermore
Grief echoing over the pier

Like swashes of tears
Coming from the fishermen’s bight
Grief echoing over the pier
In the gray dawn light


Boats by John Law

As so often happens with the forms I know well, I didn’t set out to write a Pantoum it just happened after I’d written the first stanza and sat wondering where to go next. Grief is a thing that changes over time, but still comes back to us again and again when reminded.

Searching for rhyming words I also learned two new ones.

Swash – the rush of seawater up the beach after the breaking of a wave.

Bight – a curve or recess in a coastline, river, or other geographical feature.

See all art and read all poems for today at The Wombwell Rainbow.

John Law

“Am 68. Live in Mexborough. Retired teacher. Artist; musician; poet. Recently included in ‘Viral Verses’ poetry volume. Married. 2 kids; 3 grandkids.”
Jane Cornwell

likes drawing and painting children, animals, landscapes and food. She specialises in watercolour, mixed media, coloured pencil, lino cut and print, textile design. Jane can help you out with adobe indesign for your layout needs, photoshop and adobe illustrator. She graduated with a ba(hons) design from Glasgow School of art, age 20.

She has exhibited with the rsw at the national gallery of Scotland, SSA, Knock Castle Gallery, Glasgow Group, Paisley Art Institute, MacMillan Exhibition at Bonhams, Edinburgh, The House For An Art Lover, Pittenweem Arts Festival, Compass Gallery, The Revive Show, East Linton Art Exhibition and Strathkelvin Annual Art Exhibition.

Her website is: https://www.janecornwell.co.uk/

April Ekphrastic Challenge – GloPoWriMo 2021

On the Edge

Trigger warning!
Photo by Spencer Selover from Pexels

Constantly shifting and parrying
One small misstep
Is all it takes to fall
When you are
On the edge

A thin line betwixt darknesses
The only light tread
In this weave of nightmares
Bright hope is scarce
When you are
On the edge

Unending battles and skirmishes
No path to ceasefire
Scraped raw, skinless
When you are clinging
To a sharp edge

Trapped in loops of the past
Shackled by demons
No space to break free
When you are balancing
On the edge

Blind to joy, trust, peace
Deaf to caring words and hearts
Mute the screams, silence the tears, hide the pain
Drowning in a well of sadness
Unable to reach out or be reached
When you are living
On the edge


Written for myself and others I care for. Who like me is battling depression, old trauma wounds and mental health issues.

I wanted to share how it feels to live on that edge. When the edge is all there seems to be. When there is no light on the horizon. That’s why there’s a trigger warning. Because from that place you don’t feel hope. Can’t imagine a happy ending.

Another poem about edges I written is – After.

Photo by Tom Verdoot from Pexels

Shared with dVerse — Poetics — Edges and Fringes.

Where tonight’s mission, should we choose to accept it, is to spark on one of these paths:

  1. Write a poem using the word edge;
  2. Write a poem that keeps Millikin’s question above in mind.
  3. Write a poem using the word fringe;
  4. Write a poem from the fringe, however you define it.

Obviously I choose number 1.

Photo by Daniela Constantini from Pexels

Dark Stairwell – A Haibun

Photo by Francesco Ungaro from Pexels

A dark stairwell. My cat meowing and howling in his box. The grownups swearing over the scratches they got when forcing him in. My mothers volatile mood. Grief flashing to rage, flashing to confused numbness flashing back to grief.

My aunts and uncles have strange whispering voices. Walking on eggshells. Afraid to do or say anything that reminds us. Like it’s possible to forget.
Like it’s possible to step out of the endless loop of grief and confusion.

I did not understand. How could daddy just be gone forever? And who is that stranger looking out of my mother’s eyes?

Like a plucked flower
A rootless child drifts astray
Unseen and unloved


Written for Walk with me down Memory Lane… today’s Haibun prompt over at dVerse.

I’m one of those that might have opted out of this one, knowing the punch in some of my memories. Also knowing I do not have them all. Nearly everything before my fathers death, two months before my sixth birthday. And two months before my younger siblings birth. Are built up by photo albums and my mother’s stories. And those stories tended to shift over the years. Even today, if one of her children mentions a story she told us over, and over, and over again – only to be met with a blank stare and a totally new story.

Both of us have long ago lost the sense that we will ever know the truth. We have our own memories, as far back as they go. Beyond that we will never know.

And I, again, ended up with fragments so small I don’t know what the memory is about. And this memory, of the dark stairwell, in the house we’re moving out of just weeks after my father passed away.

I have no pictures of that time. But I do have this from what seems a happier time then I can remember.

Photo by Ravi Kant from Pexels

The Rose Garden

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Waiting for sleep. For dreams. The only place I still see my love. Young and happy, as we once were. Not ravaged by age and disease. Like the day you drew your last breath.

In the rose garden we laugh and kiss. Hug and touch. Making love on soft grass beneath fragrant blossoms. I cry as we cuddle, knowing the dreams are ending. Knowing I’ll wake in a cold and lonely bed.

In the morning I find the rose garden covered in sparkling snow. Like the tears and sorrow of my dreams have fallen outside. Grief translated to shimmering ice. 


Written for Friday Fictioneers.

Read more stories by me here.

Click on the frog to read more stories or add your own.

Trapped Within A Glass-Shard Maze

Photo by Sharon McCutcheon from Pexels

Painted only blue
Sorrow in every sinking hue
Wrote only black
Walking limbos gay fading tracks

A broken heart sees haze
Trapped within a glass-shard maze

Suddenly there’s you
Swapping colours for shining new
Red bricks crack
Rainbow colours flooding back

A broken heart sees haze
Trapped within a glass-shard maze

Bloodred life begin anew
Changing this burnt desert view
Healing what was cracked
Bringing back my beloved lilacs

A healing heart’s star blaze
Flaming within a rose tinted gaze


Written for MTB: Synesthesia over at dVerse poets pub.

I find Synesthesia, really interesting. Looking at that Tedtalk and the Lorde interview (see videos below) I’m reminded of those patterns and colors I get as warning before and during a migraine attack. The patterns and colors change due to sound and touch, and have nothing whatsoever to do with object reality.

Photo by Anthony from Pexels

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