Thursday, November 29, 2012

Haiku Monday Resist Results

You haiku ku kuers don't make it easy, do you? No, you do not. There was something to love about each and every one of your efforts to cover the topic—whether from a political, personal, or . . . architectural?—point of view.

Before I outline my favorites, I'd like to once again thank the newbies for jumping into the fray. We've upheld this meme for, what, two years now? I'm not sure. But let's just say it's been an awfully long time, and there are those of us who still miss its founder, wherever he may be (making the world unsafe for Democrats and Black-eyed Peas listeners, most likely).

At any rate, Island Rider and Magical Mystical MiMi, welcome! I hope you continue to play.

Oh, and thank you to Aunty and to Blazng, both of whom arrived late on the scene and yet posted some very resistance-worthy haiku.

So, starting at the top and working down:

von LX declined to be included in the competition (most likely because he is busy swanning about Germany and having a richtiges gutes Zeit mit viellen Bier trinken WITH OUT US!), but, hey, how awesome is the word kakistocracy? Please, y'all, go forth and use it in a sentence at least once this week, okay?

Likewise, Ms. Fishy always conjures up many brilliant turns of phrase. This time around, Whimperors of Self. A great big Bill and Ted's Adventurous whoa to that one.

Serendipity, who must be the most awesome aunt EVER, made me chuckle with the image of her poor nephew trying to explain his cargo of frozen elk to a TSA agent.

Ms Becca always produces such lovely and evocative musings that speak to a rich and contemplative imagination.

As for Chickory, perhaps, as Czar points out, my sistah from anutha mutha. Certainly, there are very few people on this planet who share even a portion my particular (peculiar?) politics and she is one of them, as well as a most excellent example of why the political must be personal, and that true change starts with the individual, not the power structure.

Which is why I also really loved Magical Mystical MiMi exhortation to rattle our cages. Uh. Yes.

Fishy again, with "those are not bombs, those are breasts!" That seriously needs to be on a t-shirt.

I very much enjoyed Island Rider's deftly spun odes to empty nesting—one bittersweet, one humorous.

Señor Karl, someone with whom I could also easily share a foxhole, always hits just the right note of skepticism blended with optimism and can probably MacGyver his way into or out of just about any situation, including under the water and 10,000 feet up in the air.

New home drone contract
.95 billion / 5 year
For your protection.

is a really cool haiku.

Then there is Czar, with whom I share absolutely no politics, but who does understand my love of late 1970s punk vis-a-vis the grit that was once NYC, so we're even. Did he appeal to my vanity this go-round? You betcha. And nearly snagged the win.

But another of his buddies snatched victory from his clutches.

And that would be Fleurdeleo with:

His narcotic scent:
orange groves on a Turkish sea.
Married now! Defriend?

Yes, I know that orange should most likely be judged as two syllables but in some parts of the country, it is one: orn-j. And, besides, if we take out the word "a"—not a significant omission—the haiku still makes sense and we can pronounce the fruit or-ange. Does that make sense? I think I'm on solid ground here . . .

Anyway. What won this for me was that second line. Dang. I'm a sucker for anything scent-ual, and those seven little syllables instantly encapsulate everything I need to know about how this man intoxicates. And the third line of course says everything about how those kinds of memories can latch themselves into our brains like a pit bull with a tennis ball. Sweetie? Yes. Defriend.

And host next week, por favor!

Thank you all for playing, and mmmmmmwah!

Saturday, November 24, 2012

Haiku Monday: RESIST

S.B. and I flew down to South Louisiana on Tuesday to spend Thanksgiving with his family. On the flight both down and back, getting ready to go through security, I witnessed several folks struggling to figure out just what, exactly, was required of them in this Brave New World of Training Submissive Americans.

One, an elderly gent who didn't look like he'd ever flown on an airplane (but at least had the good sense to know that when you step out in public, you put on your very best suit and NOT a pair of flip flops and pajama pants) couldn't quite figure out what it was he was supposed to do in that machine. What? Put my hands in the air? Like a criminal? Did I do something WRONG? At least they didn't make him take off his shoes, poor man.

Certainly, the herd mentality in humans is nothing new. A good deal of it is evolutionary—we survived because like bands stuck to like bands—and a good deal of it has become part of the fiber of our social make up. We all want to feel like we belong, that we're part of a family of like-minded individuals. It makes us feel less . . . exposed. Less isolated. But it's one thing when the herd dictates, say, fashions in food and clothing. It's quite another when it extends to dangerous ideas and mob rule.

My mother told me once—only once—about the day the Nazis took the Jews from her village. The people who ran their shops. The mothers with whom they gossiped over the fence. The kids who played with their kids. Everyone knew why their friends and neighbors were being taken and where they were going. And no one did a goddamn thing about it. Don't think it couldn't happen again, were mom's last words on the subject.

Obviously, my mother forgot about our relatively recent Holiday in Cambodia and the seemingly endless crop of one South American military junta after the other. And she didn't live long enough to watch the Twin Towers come down on morning television or read about the tragedy of Darfur.

With few exceptions, it seems, history tells us that resistance is futile and that even the most unspeakable horrors are bearable if we're all in it together. Just shut your mouth and keep looking down.

Or, am I wrong and simply paranoid? Are we less easily herded today and more capable of putting a foot down and resisting whatever it is that makes a voice inside us shout out: No, this is not right? Is there something, for instance, up with which you will not put—even if it means danger for you and your family?

Let me know, in a haiku of 5-7-5, seasonal reference not necessary. And if you want to deal with the theme in terms of a physical and not psychological or political force, that's fine too. Submit as many as you like, but I'll judge only two. And give everyone an extra day, to boot. Post here and/or on your site up until midnight PST on Tuesday, November 27th. I'll pick a winner by the end of the week.

Happy 'kuing!

Monday, November 19, 2012

Haiku Monday: Rock Edifice

Once when I was in elementary school—fifth or sixth grade, I can't remember which—my teacher called my mother to discuss my lack of participation in the daily 20-minute group discussions that ended each period of my "accelerated" English class. I remember how my mother's voice sounded over the phone, heavily Germanic and clipped in that way she had when she could tell she was going to have to suffer fools: "I told you, Mrs. Smith, that if she's not interested in doing something, she's just not interested. You'd have greater success trying to move Mt. Everest. Leave her alone; she'll be fine."

So she left me alone and I did, in fact, turn out fine (I think). I also turned out to be quite the chatterbox, eventually going on to become an active participant in my school paper, drama club, and speech and debate teams. I just didn't like that class or that teacher or that particular method of classroom instruction, which seemed pointless and self-indulgent. I also learned that one of the best ways to get my way was not to rant and rave, but to shut up and dig in. As Buster Keaton once said: "Silence is of the gods; only monkeys chatter."

I need to remember that more often as an adult. I need to remember why nothing makes me happier than the sight of a mountain looming in the distance or the prospect of hiking/climbing/running/skiing one. Because it takes a literal act of God and Nature—over eons—to make a mountain change.

* * *

No stranger to the beauties of the wild herself, Ms. Serendipity naturally came up with this week's rockin' Haiku Monday theme. Drop on by and see what's shakin'. Maybe even add your own to the mix.

Devil's sacred rock.
White man whack on crack climbing.
Just glad I survived.

Sunday, November 11, 2012

Haiku Monday: Southeast

My constant refrain:
"What on earth is 'rurnt'? Do you 
mean runt or ru-ined?"

* * * 

Señor Czar was the winner of last week's fete, and thus is hosting this week with the awesome topic of SOUTHEAST. 
Run on by there and play, why don't you?

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Oh, Bummer

Kool Thing sittin' with a kitty
Now you know you're sure lookin' pretty
Like a lover not a dancer
Superboy take a chance here
(I don't want to, I don't think so
I don't want to, I don't think so.)

Kool Thing let me play it with your radio
Move me, turn me on, baby-o
I'll be your slave
Give you a shave
(I don't want to, I don't think so
I don't want to, I don't think so.)

Hey, Kool Thing, come here, sit down
There's something I got to ask you.
I just want to know: what are you gonna do for me?
I mean, are you gonna liberate us girls
From male white corporate oppression?

When you're a star, I know you'll fix everything . . .

Now you know you're sure lookin' pretty
Rock the beat just a little faster
Now I know you are the master
(I don't want to, I don't think so
I don't want to, I don't think so.)

Kool thing walkin' like a panther
Come on and give me an answer
Kool thing walkin' like a panther
What'd he say?
(I don't want to, I don't think so
I don't want to, I don't think so.)

Monday, November 5, 2012

Haiku Monday: The New Yorker Covers

Taking a break from my Doomsday Soundtrack to play Haiku Monday. That the beat of this meme keeps going on is quite astounding—and also cool. Ms. Fishy is hosting at her pond this week, with a terrific theme of New Yorker Ccovers. Check it out.

Summer’s beauty shed,
a pointillist scrim subdues.
Even high noon’s light.