Month: January 2022

It is going in,
yes my famous Haiku book,
that’s being written.

I love each Friday,
for the time ahead no less,
and to do my stuff.

I use a pencil,
and sketch the poems out,
and see how they look.

I write in pictures,
forming the branches of trees,
with its leaves and fruit.

The coffee taste great,
with each sip of bitter sweet
fuelling ideas.

The mug’s empty now,
but still the coffee flavours,
crafts it poetry.

Tasteful sensations,
like coffee inspirations
make my writing fun.

I am sitting here,
and love the peace and quiet,
but it’s quickly gone.

The sound of the phone,
wakes me from my day dreams,
with a wrong number.

My notebook is scrap,
the pages torn and scribbled on,
a fine piece of art.

Tensions were rising,
as they built the tower high,
but none understand.

One million pounds,
just for my latest Haiku,
but who would pay it?

Here is is at last,
the break the bank and the one,
to help change my life.

The waning wolf moon,
howls at the morning’s day break,
and then goes to sleep.

Bumhole Bump has lost,
Borish Bon Bon waits his turn,
where do they get them?

I’m doing push ups,
they have never felt so hard,
just single digits.

My guitar’s weeping,
for every note I’m playing,
begging me to stop.

The chair empty sat,
it’s arm rests one up, one down,
and castors broken.

It got rejected,
by careless underlining,
that had lost the plot.

The morning mist stayed,
clinging to the trees and ground,
reluctant to go.

Why would it not flush,
though she tried so many times,
it just floated back.

Why I must confess,
my Haiku addiction’s real,
and goes on and on.

What is wrong with me,
too tall, too short, or too right,
I guess that’s just me.

The day was so nice,
the sun shone, the sky was blue,
and I enjoyed it.

The moon appears full,
round and bright and far away,
in it’s reflection.

I struggle to write,
and so easily I’m wrong,
with my bad spelling.

I have lost a day,
it just went away somewhere,
never to be found.

I was lost in space,
with that stupid robot thing,
so I came back home.

The ship anchor dragged,
and let the ship go forwards,
onto sunken rocks.

The story’s not told,
unless seven candles burn,
and the shadows dance.

Well the day was nice,
I got to go shopping twice,
and still forgot it.

The rain was held back,
by strong wind that stood its ground,
and chase it away.

The word had lost it,
by this one letters ego,
to became just t.

The amorous breeze,
gentle with some passionate gusts,
that make you shiver.

My mind loves to float,
like Huckleberry Finn,
when he goes fishing.

Mark Twain’s a good read
to relax and drift away,
down that long river.

Crazy times ahead,
for thick head Borish Bon Bon,
denying the facts.

The mist has rolled in,
from crystal clear sunny day,
to mystic setting

Where will I end up
I’ve done a lot in my time,
and my times not done.

Happy little words,
gracing the page with dancing,
and lots of singing.

I will bide my time,
and come to the fore just so,
when they lest expect.

The stars shine brightly,
in a black and cold night sky,
welcoming the moon.

The wind is silent,
still it moves and chills the bones,
playing in the trees.

There’s the sound of steps,
the lonely hurried footsteps,
of one heading home.

Thursday says goodbye,
with a starry studded sky,
and those catching dreams

Like a sinking ship,
I’m going down steadily,
tapping S.O.S.

Free from earthly bonds,
and some say ‘flying away’,
comes to all one day.

But for now I’ll stay,
and then with the years go grey,
and just loose it all.

I’ve lost my marbles,
but Peter Pan just laughed,
here they are, you fool.

I am still a youth,
but look older than I am,
or is that younger?