Haiku Koo-Koo 2014 (26)

Icicles dripping

Coating the side door’s handle

Winter keeping me


Another cold day

Side-roads slick and slippery

Speed on the freeway


Frosted white tree tops

Highlighted by early sun

As I drive through fog


Late winter sunset

Highlighting the bulrushes

And the moon above


The sun was peeking

Shy behind the hazy clouds

Be my Valentine?


Intermittent light

The sun fighting with the clouds

To get a peek down


Early morning moon

Brushing light snow off my car

The wind frustrating


Dripping icicle

Looming over my doorway

Sword of Damocles


Lady Cardinal

Perched high in a dark, bare tree

Leaves with her bright mate


A coiled shipyard rope

Writing haiku in my dream

As a river snake


Cold air bites my nose

And steals the heat from my skin

Ferocious winter


Bitter cold morning

I thought I heard a robin

Just wishful thinking


Pastel horizon

The sun not yet visible

An unopened gift


In the snowy field

A lone tree’s long, dark shadow

Running from the sun


Salted winter road

Such treacherous traveling

A squirrel pancake

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The Tale Wags The Dogma

Who let that idiot get on camera?

Who gave that nut a microphone?

Who put that bigot up on the stage?

Who gave that mouse a megaphone?


Who let that idiot have a talk show?

Who gave that nut a chance to run?

Who put that bigot on the podium?

Who gave that mouse an assault gun?

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Confidence bold

Then hot and cold

Deep and profound

But clowns around

Without a clue

Then hip to you


Youth green and gold

But growing old

Tied safe and sound

Then came unwound

Righteous and true

But selfish too

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Missed Message

Some people think poets walk with their heads in the clouds

Drifting through life filled with fanciful notions, not in reality


Some people think poets wear their hearts on their sleeves

So easily swept away by some kind gesture, or a pretty face


Some people think poets get carried away with their anger

Raging against stuff beyond their control, even death itself


Some people think poets swoon over things like the sun rising

Too ready to surrender all, too willing to let themselves fall


Some people think poets live for wading through pools of despair

Wallowing in self-pity, wildly exaggerating their every heartache


But poets think people simply don’t understand life’s mystery

Despite how often, or how desperately, poets try to explain it





(Wow!  My 1,000th post on WordPress!)

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At A Loss

I’m not sure where to go

Not sure what I should do

Just stuck here in limbo


Wasn’t there a man?

Isn’t there some plan?

What does this all mean?


I thought there’d come a day

When I would know the way

But still no path is evident


Who’s writing this story?

What is the key to glory?

How will it all end?

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A pretense of poetry

The world in a word

Capture the instant

Crystallize emotion


Painting big bridges

In small brush strokes


Yet the secret remains

We fill-in the rest

With our hearts

And in our heads

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For The Want Of Art

Hitler nailed upon a swastika cross

Arian martyr, mistaken messiah

Vainglorious zealot, egomaniac

Delusional occultist and mad man

Set upon a chaotic, genocidal path

When his youthful, artistic dreams

Were quashed instead of nurtured

By narrow-minded, judgmental authority

That fatefully deemed him not worthy

To follow his muse, to pursue beauty

So, rejected and hurt, he turned away

To find another, terrible way to go

And the whole world paid the price

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