Haiku Book

Thurday like Friday,
I like this Thursday the best,
Easter is coming.

It’s April fools day,
remember those days, such fun,
up to tricks and things.

The day passed slowly,
fast at first the just slowly,
as the day grew old.

I am painting trees,
as long as they will stand still,
but I must be quick.

I am painting waves,
little hands in joyful play,
that was a surprise.

Life is so precious,
do not take it for granted,
but treasure the time.

Just sixty seconds,
of you life and time well run,
every minute.

I have nothing much,
a few pennies in the bank,
that little piggy.

I’m trying to paint,
a scene here and a scene there,
makes a pair of scenes.

I’m drawing circles,
and they just gather round me,
and follow me too.

The day is quite warm,
it is nice and I like that,
a day for a coke.

My eyes tell me sleep,
my coffee says I will try,
to keep you awake.

I am floating home,
I hopped a passing balloon,
that then let me down.

The blossoms are pink,
on the cherry blossom trees,
they way they should be.

I’m getting stressed out,
it makes me so mad I shout,
why can I just leave.

I want holidays,
places in the sun for fun,
with nothing to do.

I am so tired,
but I am not sleeping well,
I wake up at four.

I’m dreaming of work,
not rational but rubbish,
silly arguments.

Going round and round,
doing the same things daily,
without that success.

March is nearly gone,
and clocks jumped forwards an hour,
to bring morning fast.

I got up at six,
and found out it was seven,
what a shock that was.

All clocks are liars,
but too often we believe,
they can tell the time.

My paintings are fine,
that’s what I tell myself now,
and add some colour.

Moon day is ending,
and it didn’t show itself,
just some big bright stars.

I’m falling asleep,
the waves of slumber roll in,
rocking me to sleep.

What’s in a quatrain,
a poem or prophecy,
or gobbledy-gook.

I chose the latter,
I am mad like a hatter,
and it’s time for tea.

A pizza for one,
that is one pizza for me,
make it a big one.

A coke on the side,
a bottle and not the can ,
and that was crushing.

Soon day didn’t last,
because it’s end came too soon,
and over and out.

The bed took me there,
to the next and lovely day,
I hope it will stay.

Will this make me rich?
I really hope it does soon,
then I can retire.

The day after it,
it was, a long bad ass week,
that repeats next week.

I hope they pay well,
I hope I can stay well too,
they go hand in hand.

The day was lovely,
a little blowy outside,
but the sun was warm.

My shelf building stopped,
all set out and then it stopped,
I hit something hard.

I have some good tape,
it is sticky on both sides,
and can hold things up.

Projects come and go,
some are short and some are long,
I know both of them.

I like to paint now,
and I do that everyday,
to relax my mind.

Lots of greens and blues,
those restful, peaceful colours,
that paint angry seas.

What a dreadful day,
more of that work place rubbish,
all of it on line.

The remore working,
dehumanises people,
into profile pics.

in the afternoon,
the sunshine floods my office,
and brings it alive.

there’s a heaviness,
in the air and in my head,
that rarely passes.

I must seem so dull,
hair unkept and unshaven,
and really don’t care.

Claw marks on the door,
I remember that day well,
as does the other.

Pirates gold, my boy,
and chuckles in his bottle,
with a one eyed wink.

I saw the map then,
an isalnd far out to sea,
past the devil’s reef.

what yer looking at?
he could feel the question hit,
and said, ‘nothing ‘ere!’

Be sure you ‘aven’t,
said the old man grabbing him,
and pushing him down.

He fell in the dust,
and strambled then to his feet,
and just ran away.

Turds day is it now,
does it smell like fresh doo-doo?
Or, do flies like it?

Torrid day maybe,
the streams flow like torrants,
in mindless emails.

Work piled high with crap,
and stuff like bile from their mouths,
vainly repeated.

The turd words spin round,
just like something flushed away,
and they still can smile.

It was a bad day,
I lost it, like a balloon,
that got blown away.

I regathered well,
and I broke the spell like glass,
and a strange peace came.

It is demonic,
said one, and like a sane one,
laughing at their words.

Well, I lost the plot,
what I got was not alot,
and rest was wasted.

I sat counting coins,
pennies of a kind use once,
many years ago.

Do they really know,
the struggle that they cause us,
and repeated work.

And we build them up,
like sand castles built on hope,
that’s washed in despair.

The music has stopped,
and we look but there’s no chairs,
so we all sit down.

I am painting more,
a little dab here or there,
and a scene appears.

The scenes just appear,
a shoreline or sinking ship,
washed in angry waves.

A forest appears,
out of a mass of green paint,
with trunks and branches.

What day is it now,
I stare like I am lost here,
with eyes unseeing.

I meander on,
walking like a stray pupper,
but still curious.

The curtains retain,
the darkness trapped in the room,
until the sun pours in.

A shot in the dark,
no dull thud or richochet,
just the shots echo.

And so, I say quit,
run and hide or get away,
it’s not my business.