Month: November 2020

Old songs are playing,
Bringing memories and great tunes,
There’s a place for them.

Like a mug of tea,
That’s hot and satisfying,
With every mouthful.

The frost on the ground,
Gave the ground a white glazing,
And a mist later.

The old fountain pen,
Writes just like the best of pens,
And leading my hand.

The writing was clear,
Just as if it had flowed there,
A long time ago.

It resonanted
Black ink sheen and magic depth,
That really spoke it.

Meeting objectives,
One by one and overlapping,
Until they are one.

Pilies of old papers,
In this paperless work place,
Propped by printed mass.

It’s tiring my eyes,
Staring at this stark white screen,
Blinking back at me

Walk in fallen leaves,
And feel the chill gripping you,
As autumn deepens.

I fiollowed the path,
As the evening grew darker,
And the trees drew in.

It brought a silence,
But then I could hear the leaves,
Talk to me again.

Music was playing,
And it seemed to draw me in,
A new harmony.

The notes lay scattered,
Randomly across the lines,
Creating music.

The melody’s free,
To soar above the chorus,
And it lifts me high.

Yes it’s been two years,
Haiku this and then haiku that,
Each day after day.

Am I improving?
That is the quesiton for me.
Maybe I am too!

It’s a stress release,
Something different, like they say,
Keeps the dark away.

I am just writing,
Things that come to my simple mind,
Before they are gone.

It is like painting,
Sketch it out, lay down the base,
Keep it moving fast.

The detail’s implied,
Let the viewer fill the gaps,
And see what they want.

My brian is rattled,
When I shake it – I hear it,
Ratttling in me head.

‘Weird as you like it’,
She said, ‘I’ve not seen stranger!’
And then she was gone.

The paper lay down flat,
Resisting breezes attempts,
To blow it away.