The End is Near

The End is Near

These flies provoke me
Crazy pestilence!
The end is near, I can feel it
Hatching all around me.

Buzzing past my face, in my hair, down my hall
They signal decay somewhere close
I am lost to find their source.

The infestation continues
I will kill them > kill them all
Before I allow my life to be so consumed
by these loathsome creatures on my walls.

One rogue pregnant fly brought this disaster
I swear on my grave I will kill them faster.

Red swatter, blue swatter, here this one’s for you swatter
Sticky tape, gooey drapes to end your days: the end is near.
One more time fly by my ear
I’ll squash you silly and drink my beers.

by Ava Hypatia

Paul Scribble at d’Verse Poet Pub challenge us to write about “The End”.

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Vietnamese Noodles

Vietnamese Noodles

Albino tapeworms curl around themselves
So many worms in such a big bowl
I am hungry and twist them around my fork
The amputee owner/waiter assures me they taste best with chili sauce
We bob to each other, in agreement, very good, very tasty, yes!
I add more sauce with a little spoon and peek under my hot noodles for more surprises,
Poke, poke, this time with chopsticks; I laugh to my partner loudly as we share our selections
An older couple looks our way, and I stare at their plates past their eyes to see what they ordered
Do they come here often, live nearby, their private, Saturday night haunt all these years?
The young Vietnamese American children at the first table don’t look up once from their screens
Boring, boring, boring, but their parents and friends seem relaxed and happy at their bowls.
On the way out, I notice the fake fire burning is really a heater for the first window seats
Warming those framed by the front windows this winter while we sit further inside.


-by Ava Hypatia, open mic night at D’Verse Poets.

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Her Teeth Live On

Mom's TeethHer Teeth Live On

She is gone but her false teeth live on. So do her stories and words of wisdom. Her butterfly pink lipsticks would lay on her mirror tray along with a matching bold fabric dahlia. They have become shadows, having lost their color but not their meaning. The dahlia bloom lives with me now, stuffed in a bag with her obituary and list of friends. Her teeth reside with my one younger sister. Mom was a lady, a funny woman, a good soul, and someone who tried to keep her natural teeth for as long as she could, but failed.

[Haiku option 1]

Pink mirage reflects
Drops in a pool of goodbyes
Breaking laughter wide

[Haiku option 2]

Morning wake up call
Teeth in a cereal bowl
Biting down on life

— by Ava Hypatia


Prompt: A Haibun prompt at d’Verse Poets today, with a requirement of using “shadow” made me dig up this poem I wrote and add the word appropriately.  Since I had to follow constraints, as you can see, I broke a few.  The pic is actually one my sister took for this true story. You all don’t know my Mom, but she was a riot — A teacher, a piano-player, a good friend to many.  She passed away recently, but continues to inspire me.  See this other poem about my Mom if you are interested: Mom’s Itchy Skin.

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In March Friends Meet

In March Friends Meet

We sit quietly in the Friends Meeting room,
Friends surround us, shoes scuffing, coughs and sneezes now and again
Egg shaped spaces engulf all of us – nicely oval and not too overt
We breathe together, not in unison; our thoughts do not meld
Or anything as mystical as that. The cold air continues outside the hall
Bright morning sunshine breaks through the many windows that line the walls
Warming us nicely as we share common ground.

Someone stands and speaks, then another,
We shuffle inwardly each time
to listen without breaking the gentle cocoons surrounding us
A story, a message, an idea, a fear, an aspiration, a hope for all of us to improve by
Silence returns and we scuff our shoes, and cough and sneeze
We breathe together, lost in our own thoughts of humanity and community
Bringing us peace as we share common ground.

–by Ava Hypatia


Prompt: Join everyone at Open Link Night at D’Verse Poets.

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Strings are where its’s At.

Strings are where its’s At.

There is a sound that comes as close as it can
To the human voice, bow pulled firm over steel
A slide and a wail, pizzicato, jam it! on bluegrass, oh classy orchestra,
It’s the strings where it’s at, that catch me in the act
Sitting in my fine armless chair, head bent slight, left hand light
Horse hairs in my right
Prancing in my head to the rockin’ cadence
of singing strings, cuz Mozart was a
rocker back in his day, and now I am too.

— by Ava Hypatia, December 2016


Prompt: D’Verse poets ask us to make poetry with musical references.

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My New Raincoat

The Raincoat Spy

My New Raincoat
My new raincoat has the look
of espionage stories from a book
Where beautiful dames and dangerous men
Meet each other in hangout dens
Exchanging money or other vice
To collect their data for a price
And this is where the ACTION begins
You, eyewitness from within.

The darkened hallway, my passage slick
I REACH the drop and find my pick
A few brief words and off I go
My raincoat TURNS, I duck below
The cellar stairwell leads to a room
Sliding inside it’s like a tomb
I SMELL him first, thick perfumed mutt
His aim is quick and hits my gut
GROPING forward towards the door
My heart is racing, I hit the floor.

Twirling legs wide in an arc
I hit that thug SMACK in the dark
Fantasy strikes, I’m wailing fast
My eyes are sharp and focused past
The figure beneath me breathing hard
I CHOP him quick and throw him far
He lands with a THUMP across a grate
I fling myself over, none to late
Grabbing the files worth several lives
I grab the handle and open wide
The door, outside! and light FLIES in
As bodies stream in unison
I join the crowd, files TUCKED away
And disappear easily into the day.


-by Ava Hypatia

Prompt at D’Verse Poets where we are asked to write a poem using the words fantasia, phantasia or fantasy.

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I Brushed Against a Willow

I Brushed Against a Willow

I brushed against a willow,
It brushing through my hair,
The sound of freight train whistles
Moving on the air,
The sway from the commotion
Pushing me aside
I brushed against a willow,
To find a place to hide.

I sought a place of refuge,
Hidden deep within its mane,
The sound of freight train whistles
Calling out my name,
The racket from the train tracks
Rumbling in my ears
I brushed against a willow,
And released my pent up fears.

I brushed against a willow
It cloaked me from my past,
I sat among its tendrils
Breathing deep at last,
I heard the freight train whistles
Quieting on their way
I brushed against a willow,
And started on my way.

–Ava Hypatia, February 13, 2016


Prompt: @ D’Verse Poets, Victoria asks us to write in 1st person.

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