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.)
The Poet’s Circle Holds a Haiku Evening
an evening of
syllable counts and cured meats
sheer haikuterie.
(photo taken at Vancouver Folk Festival)
on Magazine Street
a sharp uptick in tweeness
a whiff of normal.
he felt deleted
like a worn-out expletive
declined, like a noun.
Photos: Waiting for the Drop
All Bubbles Burst
1
white Lexus on lease
new suit, shoes, two day stubble
bubble? what bubble?
2
cherry blossoms bloom
well-dressed ladies from Beijing
pose with hand on hip.
3
cherry blossoms bloom
the air is sticky with greed
houses, for sale, sold.
4
cherry blossoms bloom
the wrecking ball’s lazy swing
petals, debris, spring.
These haiku appeared at the height of the recent real estate boom in Vancouver; a boom that was driven by speculation, primarily by foreign buyers. Real estate became a commodity. Houses that had been around since the 1920’s were demolished and replaced by larger houses, some with an architectural style that had no context in the Pacific North West (white tiled French Colonial). Around where I live there was constant disruption: dump trucks, concrete trucks, agents knocking on my door, white Lexus’ (Lexi ?) driving up and down in front of the house every weekend, neighbours cashing in and leaving. Then like all bubbles, it burst or to be more exact, floated off to Toronto.
I have updated the post for in
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.)
was that really you
looking for your religion
there, in the corner?
I know something’s up
you’re sending mixed metaphors
your rhythm’s way off.
stunned in the meadow
channelling Ansel Adams
lens like a cannon.
Photos by Marie Feeney
Haiku overheard at the Day Care centre
Brett is sensitive
about his silhouette, don’t
look at him sideways.
v- necked, buffed, burnished
pumped, pectoral, pugnacious
aerobatic hair.
that is what I did
or should I say: emigrate
same thing, in mom’s eyes.
This Daily Prompt thing is becoming addictive. What happened to that long post I was going to write about U2’s new album which I haven’t yet listened to: how http://www.allmusic.com gave it 2 1/2 stars out of 5; how Rolling Stone gave it 4 1/2 stars; how the Guardian gave it 2 stars and 4 stars (2 different reviews); how Variety called it their best album in years; how some people just don’t like Bono and decide what they are going to write before they listen to the album; how U2 have always been polarising; how I can’t listen to “The Unforgettable Fire”; how I don’t think Bono became a mature lyricist until “Achtung Baby”; how the last album “Songs of Innocence” has 7 tracks on it that are as good as anything U2 has ever done; how the Edge treats every note like it’s a precious object; how I am biased because ever since I relocated from Ireland to Canada, I have become far more patriotic than I ever was when I lived there.
wheel well icicles
rear screen wiper on thin ice
seat warmer up high
arse-scorching
high, so that
is what that
switch is for.
A haiku and a slimverse together for the first time – 29 syllable madness. A terrible beauty is born.
Now, a poem that died and came back to life.
some said he got what he deserved
he was just another ocean liner
looking for an iceberg
but I had to observe, you know,
not all disasters
are waiting to happen.
no more séances
these days it’s hard to find a
happy medium
Reuben Wooley over at I Am Not A Silent Poet has posted 2 of my poems. The first poem I reblogged in the post previous to this one. It’s a haiku about Northern Ireland Politics, which is quite a large subject to squeeze into seventeen syllables, but I gave it a try. The second poem is looser, maybe too loose now that I read it again, but with topical poems there isn’t time to chip away at the poem.
Both poems appeared previously on this blog, but check them out and the rest of Reuben Wooley’s excellent magazine.
was that really you
looking for your religion
there, in the corner?
We got off the train from Machu Picchu at the Ollantaytambo station, walked up the station road to the town square and came upon this: Mother’s Day in Ollantaytambo. It went on all day – entertainment, raffles, prizes, politician’s speeches. The ladies seemed to enjoy themselves, although they never clapped once.
Later that evening, we had dinner in the restaurant down at the station and walking home we witnessed this haiku-worthy scene.
Station Road
I
Two black dogs humping
a puzzled white terrier
on the station road.
II
Puzzled about what?
about the expectations
of the dog in front.
photo by Marie Feeney
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.
Stopdraggingthepanda 