Haiku Book

There”s peace at dawn,
something hard to share sometimes,
and sometimes it’s fine.

I wander alone,
my camera is ready,
to the fleeting birds.

The trains travel slow,
and fields passby as you go,
and tea cups empty.

Coffee tastes so good,
in the early morning time,
with the rising sun.

The trouble with sin,
for it soon catches you up,
and insinuates.

Dashing for a pee,
and I made it just in time,
making quite a splash.

The door creaks open,
and there’s a breeze to be felt,
from a small window.

An old friend has passed,
I saw him a week ago,
then again today.

The ice cream is cold,
but cool and smooth to my taste,
nothing goes to waste.

Foot steps up the stairs,
and that old creaky third step,
gives their game away.

I’m a highwayman,
I take your bubles and gems,
leave the written stuff.

I am the marshal,
I catch the thieves, write them up,
periodically.

I’m a gardiner,
and flowery words I scribble,
in weedy poems.

I am a poacher,
I take the game and write it,
just like it is shot.

I’m a traveller,
and I’ve sailed the seven seas,
and never touched land.

I was a sailor,
and such sea sick words spewed out;
waves of torrid tales.

The moon’s returning,
and soon I’ll feel its calling,
and howl to the night.

The glass is filled up,
and in a thirstily sup,
the glass is empty.

The road gets longer,
the further along i go,
and counting my steps.

The moth by the light,
attracted by its beauty,
lost in mystery.