Troubled, sleepless shoreExhales at night her warm breath
Of pine and jasmine.
The jugular is
Unfathomabilty.
Jules Verne qualifies.
Where did men get this
Gentrification complex?
Brains fought brawn and won.
Tall tale tellers tell
Skyscraper high tales. They scratch
The sky and find plots.
Plots on which to base
Towers of Babel. Slivers
Of saliva plots.
Get your badges here.
We sell T-shirts. She sells sea
Shells by the sea shore.
Building on a flaw
Is not a good idea.
Sandcastles don't last.
The poet comments, "copyright 1998 by xoandre, g.c.i. all rights reserved."
Smoky bars only
Use neon on their facades.
Within all is dim.
Squat shot glasses are
Accompanied by chasers
Of imperial pints.
They can both bend minds,
Curve mentality, open
Doors, unlock secrets.
Free spirits that were
Dead and buried in coffins
Of grey, heavy lead.
I've only ever
Written one letter to an
Editor. Honest.
It said "Why do we
Bury our dead in coffins
Of grey, heavy lead?"
Honest. To the Times.
It meant a lot to me at
The time. God knows why.
They didn't print it,
Needless to say. They didn't
Know it was haiku.
The poet comments, "Suffered a power outage, So wrote that one twice. The next five are called "Suffer Graffiti.""
the day grows warmer
he wants to explain again
why he failed the test
The poet comments, "Happy to see emphasis on 5-7-5. "
Distance between us
I fall through another day
I land where you were
Waves shake up the sky
Evil backs the world around
The godly hunt souls
Waves shake-up the sky
Evil backs the world around
The godly hunt souls
Placid pool shivers
The chill from a skipping stone
Dead leaves come to life
If I had a gun,
I'd travel and shoot out a
Bunch of juke boxes.
If I had a bunch
Of jukeboxes there would be
Only opera.
Opera in all...
Seasons take their time, their toll
Upon the actors.
Never made it to
The Met nor La Scala...'twas
Just songs in my head.
Unswept floor, cut sets...
Costumed mannequins behind
The last drawn curtain.
The enormity.
Culture of conformity.
Inertial success.
Sand dunes undulate.
Ululations oscillate.
Nomad's an island.
Life in the desert
Is disorientated.
It doesn't belong.
Shake a sheikh. Watch his
Harem go weak at the knees.
Tunisian knees.
Thunder and lightning.
Is the storm building or is
The sky collapsing?
You can't help but love
A Night in Tunisia.
Birdsong at its best.
Masses of money
And scientific effort
Can't cancel cancer.
The search for lumps goes
On apace. Malignancy.
Are you there? Hello?
Troubled, sleepless shore
Exhales at night her warm breath
Of pine and jasmine.
A small, winged echo.....
Your yesterday's face bending
To the fragrant rose.
Autumn's colors burst
On a canvas of blue light....
Pheasants ascending.
I stare and I stare....
Implacable the presence
Of his empty bed.
If, as clerics say,
God made us in his image,
We reciprocate.
The poet comments, "After Voltaire, "Le Sottisier"..... "
From nothing God made
Everything, but the nothing
Will always show through.
The poet comments, "A pale imitation of Paul Valery's great line, "Dieu a tout fait de rien. Mais le rien perce." "
Heute, morgen...und (Today, tomorrow)
Grillen frueh morgens und noch (barbeque in the mornings)
Habe ich Hunger (And still I hunger).
These are the words that
Hilde spoke in Zulu and
German...her heart pained.
She left with my set
of collectors' pens, stamps
and promises to write.
She said she wanted
To leave because she owed the
World a tragedy.
Hamburg and Luebeck...
Stops to see family and
Eat sweet marzipan.
Tschuess Mutti, Pappa (Goodbye Mom and Dad)
Flieg', bis Sued Afrika (Will fly till South Africa)
Werd' Euch mal schreiben. (Will write you sometime).
The perspiration
On Hilde's brow is endless,
Flows like hot rivers.
Home is where the heart
Grows new roots, new branches like
The weeping willows.
Calloused feet stamp dirt.
Flattened by generations.
The kraal's dance begins.
All the great minds will
Die as terrorists or by
Actions unto them.
Watching the city
Go by can't be fun when you're
An urban peasant.
Rusting spoon has seen
The rain, the sun...now sees hoar
Frost grow in splinters.
The bird does not trust
The new birdbath and flies
Back to the old pond.
Chicken noodle soup
Is great for the spirit but
Not for the chicken.
Sand flea falls into lake.
Tiny sandpit of water.
Lake dries...flea is dead.
Blind naked woman
Holds another's arm...telling
Her what men are like.
She smells the ocean.
Her friend helps her count the waves.
Pounding surf hides cries.
Cocoanut winds blow
throughout this tropical land.
People bake on the sand.
Vendors cry out to
Burned victims of vanity...
Ice cold beers! Caesars!
One vendor speaks to
the sun. "I need money...I
Am as poor as sand."
I'm buying a bus
Ticket to Toronto when
My luck runs out here.
In one ear and out
The other. What we hear is
Different drummers.
Is your dialogue
Logical or will someone
Lodge a fierce complaint?
Is it any real
Wonder that aged people
End up like children?
They've been through a loop.
Innocence, knowledge and then
Innocence again.
The more you know the
More you know how little you
Actually know.
So is it any
Wonder that the English word
For sage rhymes with age?
Do you sometimes get
The feeling? The further you
Go, the less you know?
Poetry is one
Sure fire way to make all your
Privacy public.
Mr. Reed submitted a bunch more, and I know I said 10, but I don't want to split his groupings.
looking at my child
memory rings like a bell
calling from my past
rain tapping our tent
a lullaby and goodnight
from Mother Nature
The poet comments, "created at the Donegal's Pub Haiku Club "
The poet comments, "created at the Donegal's Pub Haiku Club "
Steve is really proud.
A drunk paid with silver coins.
Buffalo nickel.
Ian is a well-
Travelled Trans-Canada man
B.C. - Newfoundland
Concrete city has
other things besides concrete.
Butterflies, birds, frogs.
A hockey town's born.
The conquistadores have won.
Headquarters...Detroit.
The poet comments, "created at the Donegal's Pub Haiku Club "
Seeking to be youYou can't like me
To the green leaves of a tree.
I live forever.
A rainbow's shine is,
An upside down smile on child,
Who quavers for milk.
To be a love lost,
Never to be a love gained.
I will love again.
Craving life will be
As to you ultimately
Your successful key.
The poet comments, "created at the Donegal's Pub Haiku club "
We put fences round
Our fears for fear of losing
That which we hold dear.
Masculinity.
Holy trinity. Muscles,
Genitals and pride.
It takes a village
Raped, plundered, pillaged, to see
The failure of males.
Repent at leisure.
Take your own sweet time. Oodles
Of leisurely time.
Don Juan climbs ladders
In order to meet the snake
Who speaks with forked tongue.
Now, were I Adam
I would say to Eve, "Sorry,
Sweetheart, don't you grieve,
Got to be on my
Solitary way. Never
Did like apples much.
Gonna buy me a
Merc'ry and cruise up and down
Looking for females.
Gonna rumble my
V8 exhaust in their ears.
Feed them to my snake.
Were there world enough -
Were there but world enough, that
Is to say - and time
I'd tell you about
Tom and Jerry. But there ain't
World enough and time.
Then again. They say
Time is a continuum
And so never ends.
Like a rubber band.
Keeps on bouncing back again.
Time's resilient.
Keeps on flouncing back
Again, dressed in different
Guises. Time is wise.
Keeps on echoing
Back and forth off canyon walls.
Time has got big balls.
The questioner's voice
Is querulous because the
Answer's perilous.
Look the other way
While the missus and I have
A roll in the hay.
Behind the scenes they're
Pulling strings, marking time till
The fat lady sings.
It's hard to be light
And easy to be heavy.
Ready, steady, go.
Disappearing acts.
I can't check my facts but my
Guess would be that they
Made Tom and Jerry
At the same time that Charlie
Parker's alto sax
Was blowing the world
Apart. Fifties. Late fifties.
Half of this hundred.
Fred Quimby and Charles
Christopher Parker, Jr.,
A.k.a. Yardbird.
The poet comments, "Jr. pronounced June Yer."
America has
Much to be proud of. Heroes
Galore. By the score.
I have a bio
Of Charlie Parker. It says
1934
Joined marijuana
Ring. Marijuana ring. What
Is that, for fuck's sake?
Marijuana ring.
Goodness gracious. They had rings
Of marijuana.
Who'da thunka such
A thing? Alto sax in a
Marijuana ring.
Now press fast forward
Several decades. I am
Standing in a bar.
A whippersnapper
Of a lad is telling me
About Fred Quimby.
He calls Fred Quimby
Walt Disney, but then he would,
Wouldn't he? He says
"Walt Disney locked
His writers up in a house
And supplied them with
Unlimited dope.
Antebellum dope. And said
'Don't come out of there
Till you've got a toon.'"
I look at the young
Whippersnapper and think
'How right you are, squire.'
Have your feelngs been
Blunted on reality?
Now press fast forward.
Several decades
Later I have heard of a
Group called the Fugees.
I have heard they sing
A good song. So I wander
Round the record store
Till I find the rap.
Rattety tat tat. Till I
Find the rapping rack.
And there, lurking with
Intent, is a compact disc
Of stunning lightness.
Knock me down with a
Feather, Trevor. The Fugees.
Or the Refugees.
The refugees from
Everywhere, or so it seems.
Nineties' refugees.
Fifties in Paris.
The Refugees sing "Blunted
On Reality."
This light compact disc
Came packed in paper that said
"Do you want to join
The Fugees Fan Club?"
I did. This was the first time
Ever, but I did.
So I filled out the
Application form. Sent it
Off. Got no reply.
I'll find me a context
Broad and wide and beneath its
Sheets I'll sleepily slide.
The poet comments, "(Thought I'd Slip That One In)"
You come on like a
Broken arm. You are one sad
Apple, a longhair.
A cornhusker. In
Other words you don't send me.
So bail out, brother.
Get lost. And here's your
Rat, cat." Dialogue from a
Cartoon called Zoot Suit.
The poet comments, ""Lift" is escalator in English English."
Now why should a floor
That doesn't exist have such
A breathtaking name?
Looks a million bucks.
"Aw, shucks, ma'am. It's just a
Tux. Sniff my bouquet
Like you'd sniff a wine.
Appreciate the ageing
Process. That's progress."
What the cat seeks is
Hegemony, harmony,
Unification.
He dons a zoot suit.
Made from a hammock canvas.
"Oh, Jackson," she squeals.
Girls have said 'Sorry,
Horace, I can only be
A sister to you'?
Get hep to the jive.
Get your boots laced, buddy. Step
In. See Smiling Sam,
The zoot suit man. Step
Out with a zoot suit with a
Drape shape and reet pleat.
Wear an ankle length
Jacket with three foot shoulders,
Pants that begin at
The chin, zoom to a
54 inch knee and then
Fa-a-ade softly to a
Three inch victory
Cuff. Get hep. Get one. Get lost
In a new zoot suit."
I don't know how to
Define this music. Nineteen
Fifties cartoon tunes.
It's magnificent.
It's fast and spot on. Maybe
It's called jitterbug.
But let's not forget,
Folks, Tom and Jerry were white,
Folks. And for white folk.
So I am forced to
The conclusion that the men
Behind it were black.
Because who ever
Heard of white folk talking like
That? Even in ads?
And who ever heard
White folk playing jitterbug
Like that? "Oh, Jackson."
Personally, I
Never got to wear a zoot
Suit. This may be moot.
The closest I've come
Were some dancing boots I had.
High-heeled leather boots.
I loved to dance in
Those high-heeled dancing leather
Boots. Pedal zoot suits.
The poet comments, ""Pedal" pronounced peedal."
In all innocence
I bought these boots not knowing
They'd lead to Shiva.
Consider yourself
Lucky to be alive. Do
The crazy hand jive.
Popular spots are
Populated heavily
Sometimes. It depends.
Popular spots may
Drop in popularity.
It depends on trends.
Who intrudes on whom?
Who is zooming whom? Was that
Aretha Franklin?
I drink Goldstar beer.
Yesterday I bought a new
VCR. Goldstar.
Goldstar is the name
Of the VCR. GoldStar
To be more precise.
There is a point of
Some anthropological
Interest in this.
This is not only
A new VCR. This is
My first VCR.
I have never owned
A VCR in my life
Until late last night.
And the first cassette
I put in this VCR?
Yes. Tom and Jerry.
Guests from Canada
Suddenly appear, wearing
Strong deodorant.
I know this, but these
Sudden guests from Canada
Have no idea.
They don't know that I
Think they stink more than cows do,
Even though it's true.
I think they think they're
Doing me a favour. They
Don't know that they stink.
The cows and I do,
Though. Both the cows and I are
Very now creatures.
Something here does not
Gel. Let's listen to Tom and
Jerry for a spell.
"Jackson!" "What's jumping
Chick?" "You're a sharp character.
A meller feller.
Now you're carving my
Jive. You're on the right side, ya
Alligator you.
Slip me some skin my
Friend." "Well all reet. Well all root.
Well all right." "Let's take
A little righteous
Jive. Do ya hear me? Latch on
Jackson." Then they dance.
That is to say they
Jitterbug, snug as bugs in
Oriental rugs.
Tom and his missus
Do the jitterbug. And look,
I must say, quite smug.
Tom then slips on a
Banana skin. And ends up
At the piano.
There he sings "I love
You. When I'm with you I'm what
You call a hip cat.
I am hip to the
Jive. I'm in the groove, Daddy."
And his missus says
"Now you're sending me,
Jackson." He says "You set my
Soul on fire. It is
Not just a little
Spark. It is a flame. A big
Roaring flame." Jerry
Has set fire to his
Foot. And ends up wearing Tom's
Lovely new zoot suit.
They were black and their
Audience was white. Colour
Defined black and white.
You only live once
Or at the most twice. I'm sure
That you don't live thrice.
I woke up to find
Food in my bed and my shoes
In the fridge. Weird shit.
"What are you staring
At?" I say to the dog. "Oh
Jackson," she replies.
The poet comments, "Ta-ta."
The poet comments, "The Haiku "In Nicole..." was completed in collaboration with various members of the Donegal's Pub Haiku Club. "
My damn holey shoe
Is making my sole so blue
I gave shoe the boot.
A crime is about.
She pilfered a sailor's heart.
Lots of fish about.
Chernobyl is great.
My eyes have seen the true light
Gore is in the core.
A blockhead is near.
No fear, smell of many beers;
How the mighty fall.
Beach blondes, beach queens and
Even fried eggs on pavement.
Yes...Sun like it hot.
Tall skinny redhead.
Jos is her name. All her bar
Patrons are servants.
Going to come back
Next year...bring the family.
Chernobyl is cheap.
It's a holiday
In the Ukraine...damn it's great.
Caviar is huge.
The dandelions
Are like sunflowers...this is
Bumper crop haven.
First it was the cod
in Newfoundland...here
Coho is no no.
The Legion killed my
Family, my friends, my Mom.
Traits of confusion.
Nicole, kindred one,
are two times in my vision.
Sweet wine, or just love?
The poet comments, "This was done in collaboration with my kindred spirit, Jonah H. Wolff "
Tree is losing leaves
They fall...floating and pristine.
Do you like me nude?
Scared squirrel in the tree.
Chattering to Rex and I.
Do you like my dog?
The praying mantis
Is a dragonlady who
Eats husbands for lunch.
Writings of valour,
While the virtue is favoured,
The story is false.
I read limericks
To annoy my logical
Sense of decency.
Can you make money
By writing haikus or does
it just feed the soul?
African egrets,
White and watchful, swallow flies
By the black beakful.
Before Mesmer's birth
No one had experienced
Being mesmerised.
Before Galvani
Frogs had not experienced
Being galvanised.
Do I doubt that I
Detect animosity?
Certainly I do.
Does doubt deflect me
From belief in doubt? Oh how
Metaphysical.
Does a hearing aid
Imply a certain dumbness
Along with deafness?
From force of habit
Many human beings breed
Like big buck rabbits.
Hypochondria.
Health paranoia. Strictly
For the sick as dogs.
Haemophilia.
Regal Russians died from it
And bled Russia white.
Anorexia
Nervosa. Every parent
Is nervous. Rightly.
Dementia may
Be dementia tremens.
Tremendous madness.
Cornucopia
Of encyclopaedias.
The Britannica.
The unbearable
Lightness of a microchip.
A macro softness.
A mattress so light
You will feel you are floating.
You may rest assured.
Blackbird take these wings.
Fly into the dark black night.
Beatles and birds sing.
Beat generation.
You remember the beatniks.
And beetroot rednecks.
Walking to the beat
Of a different drummer.
A tambourine man.
The music of the
Fifties in America
Had discovered beat.
Where had it lain hid?
Ah, my friends. Beneath the lid
Of supremacy.
White supremacy,
Not to mince my words. Beneath
Dresses for quadrilles.
Beneath the belief
That the devil likes to dance
To naughtier beats.
So how can a beat
Be naughty? Where does a beat
Get moral standing?
So we get seasons
Of goodwill. Merchandisers
Profit mightily.
Was Mammon a saint?
'Twould seem so. 'Twould seem to be
His ultimate fate.
Not that readers have,
But that's another story.
One we leave behind.
Delicate fabric,
Creativity. A web of
Complexity.
The most beautiful
Sight I ever saw was a
Single spider's strand.
Dangling in a quad,
Glistening with dew, lit by
Early morning sun.
It ran from a tree
To the grass. I'm nine years old
In an Oxford quad.
And am unaware
That this will be the peak of
All I'll ever see.
But am well aware
That up till now I have not
Seen such a picture.
I mentioned this to
No one at the time. Silence
Seemed appropriate.
Fishing Sunday morn;
Coyote pants, looking forlorn;
Fur matted, ear torn.
The poet comments, "Coyote in this haiku is pronounced in the Canadian manner (Kai-yoat) with two syllables rather than three. "
Beautiful rainbow,
I am breaking my spring time.
I think of a cloud.
The Sage resents the implication that he can be swayed by erudite vocabulary.
..falls on his French face.
Goldfish in a bowl;
merry-go-round scenery,
Swim harder...faster.
Hans just died last week.
The organ...quiet...dusty.
Slippers set beside.
I will never trade
my walk in life with anyone's
shoes or stillettos.
If the talk is cheap
in this crowded lonely bar,
I will drink alone.
One, two, three, four, five,
six, seven...oh no...one day
left until deadline.
When you are balding
you are aware of the wind.
Scalp feels North from South.
Cars always fly by
go nowhere fast...steady. Sun
sweats on Icarus.
Christ smiled upon
the Japanese when He heard
them pray in haikus.
the passing shadow
re-casts cliffs into old bronze...
sudden change of mood
Trees weave excitement
into the mid-day quiet.
Blur of nervous leaves
Faces in mirrors;
Seven dancing arms,
Each virtually controlled
By unseen rhythms.
The point about them
Being that they banished time.
Great whirling banshees.
Material world.
A lifelong losing battle
For goods and chattels.
For eternity
Preachers extoll the virtues
Of adversity.
This church is built on
Passing the collection plate.
Was Mammon a saint?
Censer swingers at
The head of the procession
Send up smoke signals.
Back to the drawing
Board for the draughtsman. Pens fly
When plans go awry.
Concentration comes
In concentrated doses.
Concentration camps.
Romans pitched their tents
Then went into pitched battle.
Some had perfect pitch.
The devil you say?
Did they also play cricket
On cricket pitches?
Continuation.
Regal heritage. Blood line.
Queen's coronation.
Coronation mugs.
Household goods for household mugs.
Toby jugs with flags.
Pomp and Circumstance.
Edward Elgar's symphony.
Malvern melody.
The poet comments, "And P.S. Malvern for the Malvern Hills, among which Elgar lived."
Fifties' Paris jazz.
Antebellum alto sax.
Free as a Yardbird.
Aaron Neville's voice
Soars ever higher. Just like
A bird on a wire.
Rumpled man in tweed,
Smelling of pipe tobacco,
Fond of Austen's works.
Turnips, tobacco
And rumpled tweed suit. Earthy.
Not much poetry.
The poet comments, "Memories of Eng. Lit."
Baby boomers are
Our bosses, paying us with
morals and peanuts.
Zulu child dreams of
Dreams beyond the kraal's routines.
Ghost of Shaka smiles.
Stealers of ideas;
Misfits come together to
create bitter art.
When I return from
space, you had better still be
madly loving me.
Sit-ins, love-ins, peace.
Deep hate below the surface;
Myths for future minds.
The poet comments, "I'v been taking my inspiration from the city i live in lately... "
this cage of webbing
in wich i'm ever entwined
is very sticky
the day of my birth
has snuck up on me today
am i still thought young?
The poet comments, "actually i wrote this on my birthday...wich was July 14th..."
Toast Point hopes it was a happy one!
bright yellow dapples
falling through the greenest leaves
to my child's face
the light passes through
the prism in my window
and spills forth rainbows
slim girl in blue dress
get on the boulevard bus
before i'm tempted
my happy fortune
I have eaten the bearer
those cookies are good!
the whores of Burnside
flash their brightly desplayed wares
the squaking peacocks
blue speck far away
the blue bird has passed me by
happiness withdrawn
a murder's banquet
the grisly feasting of crows
upon death's table
Ramen Noodle Soup
Picante Beef flavoring
Cooks in three minutes
there is a thistle
hiding among my flowers
it bit my finger
Summer rains fall heavy
pounding snail's house loudly
hermaphrodite hides
The poet comments, "Mind wandered during a math class on a saturday morning...."
Be thankful for small
Mercies. And any other
Versions of mercies.
Sweat wets my hot brow.
It's how the body copes with
Summer and saunas.
I've looked at life from
Three sides now. From win and lose
And from neither, too.
Michaelmas daisies
Are so called because they have
Michaelmas flowers.
Burnish the tarnished
Silverware. Furnish it with
A silvered polish.
It's fair to say he's
The leading English haiku
Poet of his day.
Alto saxophones
Were invented by Sax in
His neocortex.
Of the rungs of our
Triune brain, neocortex
Is the top. Be-bop.
Of course, if Sax had
Been born elsewhere, someone
Else would have been there.
Paris could not have
Survived the fifties without
Alto saxophones.
What would she have done?
Her neocortex would have
Shrivelled. LIke a prune.
Overly soaked tips
Of fingers resemble the
Folds of grey matter.
If you laid your brain
Pan out flat, you could cook in
It, as in a wok.
Have you ever run
Amok? Have you ever hit
Husband with a wok?
Chestnuts roasting on
An open fire. It must be
Season's greetings time.
I actually
Have peacocks. Not in pear trees.
Round my bananas.
If this is what you
Call sub-tropical, I say
Thank God it's just sub.
I have only once
Visited a chat room. Can't
Say I was impressed.
A bunch of perverts.
Verbal humiliation
Was their fantasy.
After five minutes
That gets pretty boring to
Be brutally blunt.
Not that chat is not
Like that most of the time. Chat
Rooms magnify chat.
Under electron
Microscopes, microbes and germs
Quickly multiply.
At a rate that will
Boggle your mind's eye. Humans
Take nine months to split.
Let a little air
Into your stifling den, said
The brave Daniel.
Lions' paws with thorns
Are my speciality.
I carry pincers.
Not having bathed for
Some time, I could use a few
Vials of unguents.
Balm to the walking
Wounded soul. Calm on troubled
Waters is oil's goal.
Belly dancers do
Not look like ballet dancers,
Though both are peacocks.
O.K. Peahens. Did
Shakespeare have to be correct
Politically?
Anne Hathaway had
A thatched cottage. In Stratford
Upon Avon town.
If you had been born
With a name like that in a
Town like that, old cock,
You too would have been
The leading English haiku
Poet of your day.
And, quill between your
Overly soaked fingertips,
You penned tragedies.
You coined phrases, too.
You even invented words,
Like Sax did the sax.
Anne hath a way with
Her. You must have said that to
Her sometime, surely?
Anne hath a way in
Her thatched cottage of growing
Herbs like thyme and sage.
And Will, being the
Leading whatnot, praised her herbs
As best as he could.
Five minutes of chat
Leave my poor mind's eye feeling
As blind as a bat.
Gossips of the world
Have discovered they can chat
On the Internet.
This I find deeply
Depressing. All that wasted
Creativity.
Pen a tragedy.
Pen a comedy. Don't pen
Chattering monkeys.
We move like wraiths through
Solid space. We are special
Effects. So is space.
Space and time are like
Siamese twins, living in
A continuum.
Albert Einstein, like
C. J. & A. Sax made a
Mountain of molehills.
What earthly reward
Awaited Einstein other
Than splitting atoms?
An atom splitting
Is an odd reward for so
Much physical thought.
An atom killing
Hapless Japanese. There goes
Another reward.
Beware unbridled
Activity in your brain's
Neocortex, Sax.
If I sit down now
Next to my computer screen
Will Will Shakespeare scream?
The poet comments, "Written between 6:30 and 8:30 P.M. Saturday, July 18."
The poet comments, " It is not as sad as it seems."
ineffectual
mortal human construction
I shall fail in time
The poet comments, " No one survives death."
To know of friendship
Acceptance by another
Is strength to survive
The poet comments, " Journey well..."
Ideologies
Clash, just like demolition
Derby stock cars crash.
I thought a stroll would
Clear my head. I wish it had.
It left me half dead.
Impermanence is
My current predicament.
Shifting winds of change.
The weathervane whirls,
Uncertain whether to point
North, south, east or west.
An ill wind blows no
Body any good. Such winds,
However, are rare.
Tempted by the fruits
Of esoteria. And
Of exotica.
Exponentially
Incremental interest
Rates are called compound.
It's an ill wind blows.
Thar she blows through her harpooned
Nose. Death comes to whales.
Save the whales by not
Eating blubber or using
Their oil for lighting.
Will somebody please
Explain just why we kill whales?
Or is that secret?
Do we kill them just
Because they are there? Like we
Climb Mount Everest?
Do we kill them just
Because we dream of being
Eskimos? Who knows?
Ahab knew. Moby
Dick. Melville. The maker of
The harpoon knows, too.
In order to make
A living. That's why we kill.
An eye for an eye.
Saturday morning.
Pigeons coo. They have been my
Lifelong companions.
I have heard pigeons
In chimneys, cooing as a
Background to Latin.
Now I have pigeons
That eat my seed. It would seem
That I need pigeons.
Imagine all the
People appreciating
Pigeons. How pretty.
Imagine that there's
No religion, too. Think of
Pigeon religion.
We are told that birds
Are remnants of dinosaurs.
Like pterodactyls.
We are told this for
Our own good, the better to
Understand what's good.
We get our limbic
Systems from birds, the better
To understand good.
Imagine being
An alto-saxophonist
In fifties' Paris.
We are talking bee
Bop. We are thinking Charlie
Parker. Blow your top.
Imagine there's no
Time machine more perfect than
Music. Kerouac.
Imagine all the
Postures assumed by people.
Sardines in a can.
Can you handle this?
This is always the question
And not the answer.
Can you sing a swan
Song? Peter Piper picked a
Peck. Pickled pepper.
Like I said, this is
Extremely free style Haiku.
Lock up your daughters.
Imagine being
An alto-saxophonist.
Invented by Sax.
Playing bee-bop in
Paris in the late nineteen
Fifties. Nifty. No?
Woman not taking
No for either a question
Or an answer. Bro.
Kneeling before the
Plunger, poised to blow up
No. A massive no.
What were they selling?
Could it be jeans? She was quite
Tightly clad in jeans.
But I've abandonned
Her for greener pastures of
Late. I have said no.
She, however, waits,
Kneeling before her plunger,
Charged with dynamite.
Extremely free style
Allusions. Recreations
Of some illusions.
Haiku, for instance.
Creative recreation.
Free from most fetters.
Snafu, for instance.
Snafu means situation
Normal. A fuck-up.
Silverstone race track.
Birkdale golf course. The Masters.
Played in Atlanta.
Up pops the jack in
The box. Hey, Pops, where'd you start?
I mastered the art.
The art mastered me.
Same thing. The Neville Brothers
Sing 'Bird on a Wire.'
The poet comments, ""Extremely free style Haiku. Written between 7:30 and 9:00 A.M., Saturday, July 18."
Ermine. Diadems.
Badges of office. Social
Status. Bought by cash.
I start milking cows
By watering plants. The plants
Are grateful. Say thanks.
The milking rhythm
Is how you coordinate
Milking time's passing.
This means dancing to
The radio and writing
Japanese haiku.
And listening to
A friend discussing beer whilst
Eating stolen grapes.
So you are bound to
Ask yourselves if seventeen
Syllables do fit.
I have a poster
Of a lady doing just
That. Blowing up no.
What were they selling?
It was a poster designed
To sell something. What?
She was clad in tight
Jeans and was kneeling in front
Of a big plunger.
She was blowing up
An idealisation
Of a massive no.
The caption beneath
Read "Woman not taking no
For an answer." Yes.
My co-worker may
Be crabby because it may
Be his queen's birthday.
The alarm shrieks with
Banshee insistence. The milk,
It seems, has got hot.
Global warming will
Make milk's preservation that
Much harder than now.
But we won't take no
For an answer. We will kneel
Before the plunger.
If he doesn't have
The right-coloured skin how can
He have the right kin?
The poet comments, "Could you give the last haiku the title of "Epilogue." These were written between 6:15 and 8:30, Friday, July 17."
We do our bit for
Queen and country. We might, in
Fact, revel in it.
The poet comments, "This is a little more free-style, tentatively called "Josephine.""
"Dear John" was all she
Wrote. "Dear John. I've met a most
Unusual man.
One who doesn't smell
Of bodily functions. He's
Covered in unguents."
Bet your life. That man's
Beard is always neater trimmed,
His eyes, cooler blue.
Bet your life. Bet your
Dreams of virility when
Meeting a woman.
Do your hands shake when
You share a handshake with a
Goddess? Do you break?
Do you take stock with
A sinking heart? Do you tot
Your total failures?
Do you see yourself
As having only one good
Arm, Napoleon?
There's a broad expanse
Of military medals
Adorning your chest.
Perhaps she equates
Medals with bravery or
Male virility.
Perhaps her star has
Become linked with yours through the
Intervening wars.
Josephine has been
A kind of chauvinist butt.
Not tonight. Tut tut.
Josephine was queen
So she probably didn't
Care about her butt.
Napoleon was
A one-armed bandit. He was
France's Las Vegas.
Everybody shrugs
When talk turns to the topic
Of drugs. Bigwigs shrug.
We are fighting a
War that rather like Russia
Doesn't quite exist.
Guns, for instance, are
Neither here nor there. Agents
Fight drugs with thin air.
Propaganda films.
Take a gander. You will gag.
Reefer junkies. Sad.
People flying out
Of windows, taking deadly
Aerobatic trips.
The greatest danger
In LSD was you might
Think you're Icarus.
Birds of a feather
Wax enthusiastic when
Talking of weather.
How now brown milch cow?
The quick brown fox jumps over
The man in the moon.
Josephine, concerned
About the arrangement of
Her polka-dot dress,
Adjusted her bra,
In the hope of presenting
Symmetrical breasts.
Napoleon's chest,
Swelled by medals or weighed down
By medals, perhaps.
Was the object of
Our Josephine's affections.
His chest held her heart.
Josephine was smart.
Of that there can be no doubt.
But she's still a butt.
The poet comments, "Haiku on "Josephine.""
Stuart, next time you post, write us a short bio in the comments section so we know who you are. Did you say once you're on a kibbutz?
Seagulls are calling
Celebrating the evening
Relishing this life.
The poet comments, "A young beautiful woman who must treat men like disposable razors, using them until they are but mere glimmers of their old selves. And then goes onto Paris, Barcelona, etc. seeking more. The poet is awash with disgust. Rather dramatic isn't it?"
Toast Point is still trying to figure out whether banana hammock surprise is salacious. He hopes so!
strings of shadows
along the river bank
and a lonely swan
The poet comments, "It is a poem that I shall write on the girl of my dreams' birthday card. "
Our private selves are
Persona non grata. Hence
Public personae.
Haphazard hazards,
No respecters of persons,
Are strewn on all paths.
Put pixels on screens
And make moving pictures. They
Will believe it's true.
They will lap it up.
Like dewlaps on cows lap dew.
Purring cats on laps.
Kamikaze Japs.
Dying for a cause. Dying
To find a just cause.
Dying to be told
That their death was not in vain,
Though dead ears are deaf.
Minds' eyes see mirrors.
Mirrors are blind, though they are
Dependent on sight.
Minds' eyes, however,
Are not dependent on sight.
Blinder than mirrors.
These same minds' eyes see
Glory in death. These eyes are
Manifestly mad.
There's glory galore
In life. There's precious little
More than gore in death.
But the mind sees God.
To be precise, God lives in
Reptilian brains.
Our brains are triune.
Triune brains have three layers,
One atop t'other.
First, neocortex.
Second, limbic system and
Third, reptilian.
Reptilian brain,
A.k.a. reptilian
Complex. Yup. Complex.
Complexity is
The major underlying
Feature of our brains.
No man can deny.
For every answer there's an
Incubating why.
Why reptilian?
Because, my brothers,
We got them from the lizards.
Our reptile cousins.
Survival of the
Fittest involves remnants of
The weakest. Their ghosts.
And if we are the
Fittest and the prettiest,
We've ugly, weak roots.
We've the ghosts of a
Million reptiles lurking
In our basic brain.
Our reptilian
Complex. And God was born in
Reptilian brains.
Round about the time
Of the massive extinction
Of the dinosaurs.
God was born. I swear
To God. Go ahead, ask him.
When were you born, God?
At the time of the
Birth of the triune brain, God
Would reply wisely.
Alternatively,
You could say at the time of
Dinosaurs' dying.
Like kamikaze
Pilots. Going down in a
Blaze of dead glory.
But that's another
Story. What concerns us here
Is reptilians.
To be more precise,
Dinosaurs; massive lizards
Who died for our good.
They saw a massive
Meteor come from the sky.
And then they died off.
They weren't so stupid
As not to connect the two
Events. Sky and death.
After the death of
The dinosaurs, along came
Our other forebears.
To be precise, our
Nonprimate mammalian
Forebears. Oh mamma.
Placental mammals.
Nonprimate mammalian
Forebears. Pseudospeak.
Dolphins and whales are
Cetaceans. They forebore
Our neocortices.
Just think, not even
One human being knows what
Goes on in the brain.
Our most dominant
Feature and also the one
That's least understood.
Hands up. Who among
You knew that we had triune
Brains? Precious few, huh?
And yet we trust our
Brains because they mirror life.
And can't mirror death.
Death of dinosaurs,
For instance. We trust our brains
Not to lead us there.
But our brains are there.
At every brain's core there is
A reptile complex.
Or R-complex, as
Scientific literature
Abbreviates it.
Should you be lucky
And find a good audience,
Treat them with respect.
Talk to them about
Brain functions. After all, what
Are humans but brains?
Brains on stilts. Upright
Primates. Upright and uptight.
Vivacious, nervous.
Our neocortex
Is a mass of nerves. Not to
Mention synapses.
The poet comments
"For Elaine." Switching boxes.
Routing connections.
A pinball machine.
Try not ot tilt. Don't push it
Beyond its limits.
Our neocortex
Lights up like a fairground at
The mention of nerves.
It has so many
Nerves that it is bound to be
Nervous when mentioned.
The R-complex, on
The other hand, is reserved.
Shy and lacking verve.
Our brain says "I am
Important." Our body has
No choice. It agrees.
Even though it is our
Eyes that see we agree that
Only minds' eyes see.
Our neocortex
Resolutely denies that
There's an R-complex.
And R-complexes
Are incapable of speech.
Let's not forget that.
Gods, also, oddly
Enough are incapable
Of coherent speech.
Do you know to what
Extent your brain is concerned
With moving your tongue?
If you did it would
Give you pause. You'd look for the
Underlying cause.
You'd say speech must be
Essential, then you'd worry
About being dumb.
Deck the halls with sprigs
Of holly would be hollow
Without the music.
We don't seem to have
A mental allegiance to
Our external ears.
So the chain breaks down
At sight. What we saw was a
Meteor. At night.
It crashed into the
Planet earth and set off
A chain reaction.
Human beings grew
To be servants of God when
The dinosaurs died.
You don't believe it?
Look at the wonder in the
Eyes of your children.
Farewell padded cell
New identity crisis
Blind captivity
The poet comments, "Believe it or not, this was actually generated with a windows95 haiku generator that I wrote. It's free and fun, and I dedicate it to the whole haiku world. Feel free to download it by clicking http://www.fas.harvard.edu/~ccoyne/bs2000.exe "
Arctic campfires?The poet comments, "Friend just got an albino ferret, Fascinating!"
Breeze, blue skies, sunshine
Sailing in the Chesapeake
Serenity reigns
The poet comments, "A rare mid-July sailing day brings forth haiku!"
Ice-cracked wind-raped heart
Red loyal soldiers
White as passages of faith
Blue truthful as you
The poet comments, "To those who serve this great country!"
Sudden showers fall
Cracklin cloud burst baseball hail
Ah now the lightning show
Be charismatic.
Don't take artistic offence
But you lack pazazz.
Yazzum. What you has
Is piss poor pazazz. Elan,
Eclat, all that jazz.
Charlie Parker was
A hard nut to crack. Black
And uncompromising.
Anything that smacks
Of anathema to you
Strikes a chord with me.
I'd rather have a
Lark than try to make my mark
And the choice is stark.
I know I'm in a
Pickle even though her shrug
Is non-committal.
Only unity
Will bring you immunity
From disharmony.
Strike a light, you could
Light a fire from the friction
Between blacks and whites.
You're as frisky as
A fricassee, Chappaquidick
Chickadee. Aren't you?
Spoiled for choice. Henry
James or James Joyce? Don't blame me
If I plump for Bloom.
Seething emotions
Have no place showing themselves
On a poker face.
It's dog eat dog in
The rat race. Such a pity
About what's his face.
Bust a gut. On the
Go from dawn to dusk. Dig an
Ever deeper rut.
Rock and roll was a
Notion to cause commotion
That crossed the ocean.
Suppressed aggression
Bubbles to the surface
At a drinking session.
All of our goodwill
Is drowning in overkill.
A sea of bad blood.
I'm looking to steal
All the valuables so
Carefully concealed.
I wish I was a
Turtle, then my home couldn't
Be burned or burgled.
Battering rams worth
Their salt know how to perform
Full frontal assault.
"Quotidian tasks,"
Quoth the well-versed quack, "Cause most
Lower lumbar pain."
It's all above board.
Come into my garden, Maud.
Up my garden path.
Odds and sods and odds
And ends. All oddities blend,
Up around the bend.
Judy Garland sang
Somewhere over the rainbow
Whilst under a cloud.
The reputation
Of a parrot is founded
On repetition.
Sure I'm secure in
The knowledge that I know. I
Have got diplomas.
Yazzum can be said
So many fulfilling ways.
So can writing it.
It helped in the spread
Of its popularity
Among black servants.
You won't find it in
The dictionary. So don't
Bother, my brother.
You will find it in
Vocabulary, though, if
You know where to look.
Just when you thought you
Were sitting comfortably
The fucking phone rings.
Pause for reflection
In my own full-length mirror
Of self-deception.
Worms squirming in thought
I can hear them creeping in
Begging me beneath
Inner collusion
Witches heady spell tightens
Cold sharp mojo pin
oh, reddish sky red
check on the new horizon
your morning has come
chirp as crickets do
the darkness as it passes
sing me a new song
calm before the storm
baby's breath blossoms
suspended in a morning web
my grandma's lace shawl
The poet comments, "It took me back in time, and it took my breath away! "
Egyptian scribes fell
In love with the motion of
Nibs on papyrus.
Occasionally
It occurs to me. I'm an
Under-achiever.
Blessed be all this
Nomenclature. It is a
Part of our culture.
To tread new paths is
To get trodden on. Ask the
Lone downtrodden wolf.
A scribe is supposed
To get effusive about
Curvaceous esses.
Then along came the
Typewriter. Kaboom. No more
Curlicued esses.
Curlicued esses
Have disappeared. Been replaced
By word processors.
The glint of fresh ink
Drying in the sun. The smell
Of sharpened pencils.
The grain of wood on
The desk lid. The initials
Scratched with precision.
The squeak of chalk on
A green blackboard. The bouncing
Pungent eraser.
If all the tools are
In place, the calligrapher
May proceed with grace.
An itinerant
Japanese calligrapher.
Haiku on horseback.
He was extended
An honourable welcome
And at least three meals.
His horse was stabled,
His laundry done. Hot bath.
Clean sheets and Shoguns.
Then on the morrow
He'd write a poem or two
On rice paper rolls.
This bloke's job was to
Encapsulate or capture
Life in a pen-stroke.
If he achieved it,
No wonder he was honoured.
No unsung hero.
If he didn't, who
Cared? No one expected him
To, to tell the truth.
It was tradition,
A ritual. That was all.
Time-honoured pen-strokes.
Lucy in the sky
Watched from the river. Closely
Watched calligrapher.
The gods of rivers
Didn't take kindly to an
Ill-proportioned ess.
So itinerant
Horsemen learned not to press,
To go with the flow.
There is a scroll of
Japanese calligraphy
Hanging on my wall.
It says that God jumps
Over heaven's gate, which is
An odd thing to say.
It's exquisite,
In spite of its mad message.
Or maybe because.
Heaven's Gate. Heaven
Can Wait. Two Hollywood films.
Modern script writers.
Toothache's wrecking ball
Has been stalled by a wall of
Antibiotics.
The poet comments, "I'm one syllable over...sorry!! "
Buskers fight sound with
Sound in London's Underground.
Music in the Tube.
The aliens are
Assuming ascension mode.
Back to Mother Lode.
A hearty party.
Thumping good do. A mix of
Soiree and melee.
Mornings were drug free
Then the good Lord created
Addictive coffee.
Neurologists read
Synopses on synapses.
There are so many.
It's lonely at the
Top, crowded at the bottom.
Gotham pyramid.
Skepticism was
Hard to keep though the skeptic
Kept it. Under wraps.
I like a corkscrew
That screws straight and true. All my
Corkscrews screw askew.
He's a fink who can
Slink between any weak link
Or chink in your chain.
Oilskin sou'westers
Keep out the worst of the North
Atlantic weather.
Innocence is seen
By teens as a serious
Inconvenience.
The sunbeam's filled with
Swirling smoke and floating motes.
Post-coital fag.
Toast Point wishes he were a... well, never mind...
That silly germ of
An idea underwent
Extermination.
You've a cleft palate.
You've an incomplete verbal
Palette, so to speak.
Rival arrivals
Compete for baggage wagons,
Shouting and shoving.
Apropos ipse
Dixit dicta, quod erat
Ipso facto sum.
A facial gesture
Is a lingua franca, though,
Of course, unspoken.
Coloratura,
Colourful decolletage
Heaving, sang alto.
The spectators aren't
Particular so long as
It's spectacular.
Here comes plenitude
Threatening and weakening
Moral rectitude.
All the latest rage
Bounding onto centre stage,
Flying from the wings.
I dig dignity.
Indigo indignity
Paints my whole world blue.
You have nothing to
Lose but your workaday blues
In the neon night.
Yazzum is Negro
For "Yes ma'am." It drove the good
Miss Daisy crazy.
transcendental blues
sorrows of Jerusalem
truth of sun and rock
Lonely loony night.
The bitter taste of moonshine
lingers on my tongue.
Weed killer and rain
a recipe for more growth
Overgrown garden
Is it god feather?
no name and all that purple....
Maybe gay feather
House fly on the screen
still can't figure the way out
Seems like a week now
green grass turns to brown
weeds overrun the garden
and summer rolls on
Moon shines in the day
Blushing the boisterous sun
Hiding behind clouds
Sun in darkness shines
A campfire for the the planets
Winter to Winter
A tear of nature's
joy is left on every
tree's outstretched glory.
There at the turnstile
Proffering cash in exchange
For a first class ride.
With porcelain eyes
Porters mesmerise. Lucy's
Not the least surprised.
Tangerine tulips
Touch her two lips. They kiss
And speak double Dutch.
With looking glass ties
You look their shirt in the eye
Whilst combing your chest.
Answers quite slowly
Bounce along neural pathways
Into ear canals.
Marshmallow pies eat
Rocking horse people as did
Chicago's eggplant.
Cellophane flowers,
Transparently light, glint like
Glass in head-high grass.
Newspaper taxis
Give you bare bosomed beauties
On every third page.
Kaleidoscopic
Eye sockets picture themselves
The picture of health.
Sgt. Pepper would
Be most unlikely to have
A lonely hearts club.
The poet comments, "Hope is a many splendored thing."
Facedwithapuzzle
Howquicklydoesthereader
Giveupthestruggle?
Doestheelement
Ofsurprisecompensatefor
Takingthetrouble?
The poet comments, "Without further ado I will move on to writing haiku whilst milking cows."
A length of hose-pipe
And hollow metal pillars
Call cows to milking.
Be a poet, bro.
Then you'll have mental music
Wherever you go.
The poet comments, "I decided not to switch on the radio."
Putah turns on two
Fans that whirr, ruffle my hair
And stir the dead air.
A friend donates two
Ice-cold Israeli beers. A
Long drought diasappears.
Toast Point, not being a beer drinker, suspects that the spelling in the last line is intentional, but is not sure.
Silence of the cows
Is a whole lot calmer than
Silence of the lambs.
Next we come to the
Art of yelling where we find
Timbre is telling.
It ain't hot you do
It's the way hot you do it.
That's what makes what's hot.
Without water we
Would have no milk and without
Worms we'd have no silk.
A herd of cows on
A kibbutz. Marshalled human
And bovine forces.
Hygiene is godly
Because both bacteria
And gods can't be seen.
The poet comments, "I believe in gods, plural, not God, singular."
A bell rings, a light
Shines, an alarm sounds. These things
Have rational grounds.
A haiku writer
Is not called a haikuwright,
Though by rights he should.
The poet comments, "Haikuwright looks ungainly but sounds alright."
Most females are most
Vulnerable post-partum.
That goes for cows, too.
Another piece of
Hose-pipe washes the parlour.
Hose-pipes are handy.
The poet comments, "These were written between 6.30 and 9.00, Friday evening, July 3rd."
sinchronicity
concepts bind with memories
crow anticipates
sinchronicity
experience guides my way
but nature teaches
The poet comments, "oops, insufficient syllabless me soul, landed in heaven anyways."
