Haiku Book

There’s a special book,
In which I write my poems
and thoughts and ramblings.

Prisms in my room,
refract the sunlight about,
at different times.

There’s too much detail,
and our lives fritter away,
lost in business.

My coffee tastes great,
sexy hot, black and bitter,
oh no that’s my ex.

Writing in pieces,
a piece here and a piece there,
and they call them words.

Stringing out the words,
like a clothes line with wet clothes,
dripping on the lawn.

The cup’s half empty,
is what they said to me once,
but it was half full.

A little island,
nestled in the deep blue sea,
and a place for me.

The jazz notes run off,
you don’t know which way they’ll go,
or if they’ll come back.

The ukulele,
thinks it is easy to play;
I know otherwise.

Keep the biscuits safe,
the last thing the captain said,
as he dipped one more.

I found a lost note,
wandering around the keyboard,
then found it some mates.

The pages grow heavy,
as the plot grows and thickens,
heavier they grow.

A walk to the lake,
this time I caught the sunset,
golden and peaceful.

I missed the full moon,
but felt its drawing presence,
and roamed woods and fields.

The strangest feeling,
deja vu, been here before,
that would be last night.

I cover my tracks,
no willing to be followed,
deep into the woods.

The sky holds wonders,
the sun and moon the real stars,
both through the seasons.

Daffodils in bloom,
and spread across the hillside,
a sea of yellow.

The warmest springtime,
for a hundred years they say,
what a day that was.

Footsteps up the stairs,
and that miss that creaky step,
and then just silence.

We wait in silence,
to just hear that tell tale sound,
and suddenly jump.

I can’t explain it,
how I find myself here now,
with all I been through.

The night’s cool not cold,
and the spiders came as well,
does this mean a storm?

Shadows on the wall,
moving with the breeze blessed trees,
that sway in sunlight.

There’s a sound of cars,
passing close by on wet roads,
and the glare of lights.

Sudden things happen,
like fish jumping out the pan,
down at the chippy.

A silly mistake,
that left two a day ahead,
playing with time travel.

I have no answers,
when there are no real questions,
except real questions.

Some things that I like,
painting, sleep and marmite crisps,
but not together.

The mist and rain came,
with a serene glowing light,
and it simply was.

The bin went out today,
and came in late and empty,
and wet from the rain.

I’m sick of Covid,
in my face and teasing me,
time that he was gone.

So gently it falls,
warm and light, like kind graces,
these sun light kisses.

I’ve travelled the world,
and walked the streets of Ukraine,
and met great people.

I’m in a mess,
and it’s of my own making;
I’m tidying up.

My new mate Covid,
stayed over and just won’t leave,
he is still a pain.

Roget’s thesaurus,
a surviving dinosaur,
that sits on the shelf.

They’re attacking ‘fine’,
I’m baffled by this action;
leave the word alone.

Spring tickles the trees,
and tease the buds and blossoms,
bringing a fresh hope.

Sat here with Covid,
he’s a pain and tough to bear,
I hope he leaves soon.