Tunnel
there is a cliche
at the end of the tunnel
be all you can be.
Stock Exchange
a bear is on the loose
the once priapic market
losing altitude.
Counting Time
one two three four five
the Mississippi silent
but just for a while.
I thought I would give this one another outing at Open Link night over at dVerse.
Why I have difficulty writing haiku
problem with haiku
definite article is
first casualty
next casualty
indefinite article
makes me sound little
like Japanese guard
in prison camp in movie
world war two movie
who for some reason
is speaking English (how? why?)
with staccato voice
or perhaps I am
po-faced guru on mountain
dispensing bromides:
crow flies at midnight
in front of luminous moon
affair ends badly
all because I am
in service to, at mercy
of, syllable count.
Raccoons
raccoons on the deck
humping in the porch light glow
procyonid love
Crosswalks
January morn
the low slouch of high school kids
cross sullen crosswalks
Following the Rhyme (haiku)
sacred and profane
irrelevant and germane
J. Cale and Cocaine
(I know, real haiku’s don’t rhyme)
Toadstool
I see a toadstool
and wonder: what in toad hall
has that toad eaten?
Early Bird Special
unlike the midnight special
there are no songs
to celebrate the early bird special
no IHOPian bard,
no poet laureate of the blue plate
no bargain basement Dylan
no cut price Cohen
to extol the digestive
and economic benefits
of getting an early start.
Inspired by the dVerse prompt to write a quadrille using the word “early”. Thanks to Kim for the prompt.
Bonus Haiku
dawn breaks, early shift
at the haiku factory
counting syllables.
Photo: Sunrise on Planet Cistern 2
This haiku is in response to the RonovanWrites weekly haiku challenge. The prompt words are rebel, change.
You don’t have to Yell
are you a rebel?
are you in need of a change?
call Rebel Help now!
Day at the Beach
sand martins, packed sand
mom’s new perm all blown to hell
a holiday wind
transistor blaring
Bobby Kennedy is dead
dad’s head turns slowly
Mosquito at Dusk (haiku)
mosquito at dusk
red weal, antihistamine
calamine lotion
sweet calamine
good times never
I’d be inclined….
Death of a Scofflaw
he was popular
with the police force, they will
miss his demeanour.
inspired by The Daily Jolt.
Rooster
still dark, the rooster
starts his moronic complaint
damn pre-emptive cock
The Daily Prompt is dead, long live…..
Suddenly at the end of May, the Daily Prompt disappeared from the blogosphere just when I was getting to know it. Frankly, I miss it. I didn’t respond on a daily basis but every now and then, a prompt would fire my imagination (I can’t get no..) and I would write a poem that I would never have written without that prompt. So here is a haiku to lament the passing of the Daily Prompt.
In Memoriam: the Daily Prompt
left bereft, promptless
stalled and stumped and paralysed
how can we go on?
But all is not lost, I have noticed a few bloggers out there are trying to fill the gap, and I would like to throw my hat into that ring. The difference is I will be offering prompts that are not actual words, but words that I have made up. Today’s word is “brattitude”. As in…..
“The dress has that swaggering catwalk brattitude we have come to expect from a Karl Aufderfelt design.”
Since I do not want to sully the memory of the Daily Prompt, I have struggled to come up with an alternative name. I thought maybe, the Daily Prod, but some of my friends in Belfast might mistake it for a sectarian bulletin. I toyed with the Daily Prick but abandoned it for obvious reasons. I finally settled on the Daily Jolt, like a shot of caffeine, a creative laxative. (This post is like a bowling ball that keeps veering towards the gutter.)
So give it a go, hit me with your best shot, post something inspired by the jolt word “brattitude”, link back to this blog and I will list a link to your post here. Or simply post a comment here.
By the way, it’s very unlikely that I will have the imagination or application to do this on a daily basis, so the Daily Jolt will probably be occasional.
Why, when dogs chase birds,
do we see optimism
not futility.
***********
(By the way, if you haven’t already, check out “Comedians in Cars getting Coffee” where comedy, coffee and cars are the only constants.)
he felt deleted
like a worn-out expletive
declined, like a noun.
Photos: Waiting for the Drop
I’m sitting in front of a pitcher of Blue Buck Ale in The Post Coital Beetle when Slim bursts through the door wearing a lime green cycling jacket, black spandex pants and a maroon cycling helmet balanced on the balding boulder that is his head. Little red and green lights wink on and off on his helmet and shoes; strips of high vis luminous tape decorate his spandex legs.
“Slim”, I say, “you look like a fucking Christmas tree.”
“Safety is job one.”
“All the world needs is another slogan”
Slim ignores this and announces that he has invented a new word.
“I know”, I say, “tumultaneous.”
“No”, he says, “a new one – chillacrity.”
Slim takes off his jacket; he’s wearing a tangerine fleece unzipped at the neck to reveal a tuft of ginger hair. His gut is putting a strain on the fabric; he looks like a soccer player who has stuffed a ball up his shirt in celebration of a goal and a pregnancy. I get a whiff of rising damp and realize that Slim is not wearing a tee-shirt – fleece on bare sweaty skin, a warm pub, this does not augur well. He is as close to animated as Slim gets.
“So, here it is, say you’re walking down a suburban street and you hear the frantic screams of a young girl. You look around, the screams appear to be coming from a house across the road. The door is open. What to do you do? Sprint across the road and into the house? No,…… you look right and left and slowly cross the road taking out your cell phone at the same time and phoning 911. You give the operator the address and note the snow shovel on the porch of the house. The screaming continues, you step over some broken glass, grab the snow shovel and slowly enter the house shovel first….you’re moving with chillacrity”.
The evening has just started and already I’m wondering if it will ever end.
Haiku written sitting in a pub in Toronto killing time
fish tacos, pale ale
menu says pico gallo
what the fuck is that?
These poems were originally written as an attempt to provoke. That didn’t happen, and nothing changed as a result of writing them but at least I had some fun doing it. The second poem appeared in the magazine Anti_Heroin Chic
Haiku for Donald
petulant pillock
postcranial curmudgeon
bombastic buffoon.
Trumputin (a romance)
Don loves Vlad
Vlad loves Don
Love as big as
A nuclear bomb.
Front door, back door,
Kremlin, tower
Nuclear love
Nuclear power.
allergens loiter
on the vacuum’s humid breath
spiders abandon
web based solutions
seek cover in crevices
domestic terror.
Why, when dogs chase birds,
do we see optimism
not futility.
***********
(By the way, if you haven’t already, check out “Comedians in Cars getting Coffee” where comedy, coffee and cars are the only constants.)
I know something’s up
you’re sending mixed metaphors
your rhythm’s way off.
allergens loiter
on the vacuum’s humid breath
spiders abandon
web based solutions
seek cover in crevices
domestic terror.
struts across the lawn
with a cleric’s confidence
tail cocked and cocksure.
This is an alternative version of the previous post (I don’t know how people write novels, seventeen syllables gives me enough problems). I think this version is more musical because of the alliteration at the end, and because “sphincter” is not a very musical word. Comments, opinions are welcome.
struts across the lawn
with a cleric’s confidence
tail cocked, sphincter primed.
down in the basement
vacuuming shards of sunshine
slanting ‘cross the floor.
This a re-working of a recent haiku. Not much time to write lately (my daughter got married last weekend!), so 17 syllables are as much as I can squeeze in.
