Month: March 2021

The weather’s windy,
and it is pouring with rain,
the clouds hanging low.

I had a hard day,
just the work load I’m guessing,
as that’s all I do!

And day in, day out,
I can say without a doubt,
that work takes my time.

I have ambition,
as a writer I would be,
if I could you know.

A mini cross box,
hangs on my wall on a string,
and it shoots toothpicks.

I’ve a cardboard foe,
I shoot when I’m fristrated,
and knock that thing down.

What a lovely day,
the sky was blue, the sun warm,
what a great springday.

I couldn’t enjoy,
trapped in a office working,
and drinking coffee.

I can swing a cat,
in this office here, I’ve tried,
it just hit my chair.

The mice were amused,
to see this furr ball flying,
and also screaming.

What a sight it was,
when that cat got on the ground,
and cornered the mice.

It’s a fantasy,
flying cats, and amused mice,
and things that go round.

The weather is great,
the evening is feeling cold,
there must be clear skies.

I want just one more,
to make this blog complete now,
just enough to thrill.

So here’s another,
another one for free like,
take it of leave it.

It is back to work,
as much as I like to shirk,
I must do my bit.

Work’s like shovelling ‘it,
emails, team calls, all the team,
just moving it on.

The day was Monday,
heavy with all those good work things,
that keeps me busy.

A week of from work,
meant the emails were piled high,
and in their hundreds.

And up at seven,
I should have gone for a run,
but I didn’t go.

Anyway, that’s life,
I’m flying high in April,
but I’m still in March.

It is a new week,
and seven days make one weak,
so do take a rest.

Over and again,
I tell myself the same tale,
one of good and bad.

It used to go up,
now it tends to just go down,
like the Twitter likes.

I found some footprints,
some large ones in the forest,
wohever made these?

It’s a mystery,
and people are out looking,
to try and find it.

No sheep have been hurt,
in the writing of this piece,
so you can relax.

The pen led the way,
and the pencil got the hump,
and the lines were drawn.

Twas a messy end,
the page was smudged up badly,
and the pencil broke.

Pen, unrepentant,
donned it’s cap and stood there proud,
we smudge but don’t budge.

One week of from work,
makes it worse going back there,
it is what it is.

It is what it is,
so I ask, “Can I do it?”
It is just a job.

Eating somt fruit pies,
and one isn’t good for you,
what will two do then?

The days are longer,
I like this time of the year,
there’s optimism.

I got a air gun,
but it has breathing problems,
and just clicks and clicks.

I went for a run,
I also went for a walk,
but always come home.

The art of the small,
that’s the challenge of today,
and this Haiku blog.

I have done something,
shop, pack it, and take a walk,
and call my dear mum.

That does feel enough,
for a single Saturday,
but there is more left.

I could play guitar,
watch a film or maybe write,
or go for a run.

The day started well,
up and at them from the dawn,
and slowed by midday.

It’s a strange Friday,
it doesn’t feel like Friday,
but like a Tuesday.

The songs just pile up,
old records, tapes and CDs,
now it is all streamed.

I want fish and chips,,
in paper and steaming hot,
like it used to be.

Got bangers and mash,
second best I guess maybe,
and with some mustard.

The clock are on leave,
or something, like batteries,
or just change the time.

Nearly lost it all,
took a call and it shut down,
but fortunately.

One, two, three and four,
in reverse order today.
How often is this?

The battle line’s drawn,
and the troups are all lined up,
like sheep to slaughter.

A song came today,
but the tune is in delay,
and due tomorrow.

Twitter thinks I’m daft,
but Facebook wants to be friends;
Instagram’s pissed off.

The weather is wet,
and I went drilling some holes,
they soon got filled up.

I went go shopping,
to get a few bits and bobs,
and something to eat.

Silly game playing.
I am playing Royal Match,
and getting on well.

A minor sixth chord,
sounds simply divine to me,
then B minor sixth.

Great for Summertime,
the song and the hot season,
and songs in the park.

My office is clean,
and a little tidy now,
with things put away.

I like lazy days,
swanning down a French river,
and stopping to dine.

It’s not about hits,
or the number I can score,
it is just for fun.

A light mist hovers,
over the fields and the tress,
making them look good.

I’ve changed my guitar,
it is now an acoutic,
I want a new sound.

Words don’t come easy,
but nor are they difficult,
maybe they just are.

There’s a sound coming,
down the road and rushing fast,
oh yes, it’s a car.

I may come back soon,
and write on the tomb stone here,
in the small graveyard.

Bumhole Bumps’ idols,
pagan golden images,
that people worship.

The world has gone strange,
claiming one thing with passion,
to then deny it.

Dispite all the news,
showing this hyprocrisy,
they speak out proudly.

I do not like news,
I live a simple true life,
with my short Haiku.

There more than enough,
nonsense in the news for sure,
most of it is bad.

The sun’s breaking through,
the greyness of the morning,
for a brighter day,

Lunch was a pork pie,
and a cup of tea, that’s me,
it doesn’t take much.

My office’s a mess,
a lot of stuff and no space,
I want space not stuff.

Piles of stacked papers,
arranged in piles everywhere,
that all need clearing.

It is like my head,
there’s piles of things inside there,
arranged in a mess.

Well, the March is here,
trying hard to pull away,
from the winters grasp.