The Bishop and the Butterfly: Murder, Politics, and the End of the Jazz Age
    MrSmith1's picture

    Still even more haikus for a Friday afternoon that reminds us that Christmas is only 9 days away

    By MrSmith1 on Fri, 12/16/2011 - 1:44pm |

    This week's batch:

     

     

    Faded memories.
    Two men on a Summer's Day.
    indulge a wife's whim.
     
     
     
    A wedge of cheddar
    a slice of apple pie and
    things are lookin' up.
     
     
    Wistful reminders
    of what you once meant to me,
    shoved under my bed.
     
     
    A sprig of parsley,
    delicately placed on plate,
    makes a nice garnish.
     
     
    fine fettles of fish,
    fancily filleted, feed five.
    flounders feast filling.
     
     
    The kitten struggles;
    its head's stuck in a box of
    Meow Mix. Purrr-fect.
     
    (alternate 3rd line: 'Meow Mix.  Chex mate.')
     
     
    I yearn to be young,
    not for obvious reasons,
    but to have more time.
     
     
    tanka haiku:  Bittersweet choc'late
    then morose maple syrup,
    where does it all end?
      With comatose caramels?
      The Domino Sugar theory.
     
     
    Whispering willows,
    drive the other trees crazy.
    Why can't they speak up?
     
     
    Seriously, where
    do we find all the time to
    play games on Facebook?
     
     
    In some dark cellar,
    last year's Christmas ornaments,
    still wait patiently.
     
     
    Comic books, candies,
    walnuts and an orange, filled
    his Christmas stocking.
     
     
    Lithe and lovely, she
    floats and flitters 'round the stage,
    seducing us all.
     
     
    A large rubber band
    was the only thing keeping
    his Life together.
     
     
    Each Saturday morn,
    young ladies with laundry bags,
    wish for a washer.
     
     
    This is the Future
    that you dreamed about while you
    sat in Study Hall.
     
     
    Good God, she's naked!!
    He wasn't often flummoxed,
    but this ... well ... gee whiz!
     
     
    The worker began
    rummaging through his tool-box,
    looking for pliers.
     
     
    Those blue serge suits aren't
    getting better. The truth is,
    they've gotten worsted.
     
     
    tanka haiku: Sweetened lemonade
    poured in paper cups and sold
    to thirsty neighbors,
       seldom makes your children rich,
       but teaches squeezing lemons.
     
     
    Shuttered cottages.
    Dust settles on empty chairs.
    Sunlight peeks through shades,
     
     
    Would hammy actors
    in the Yiddish Theater be
    considered Kosher?
     
     
    Word plays are funny
    biz-ness; sometimes they work and
    sometimes they don't play.
     
     
    Personal items,
    given little thought today, are
    future mementos.
     
     
    A white handkerchief,
    that belonged to his father,
    found in a blue box.
     
     
    Wondering whether
    what you believe is the truth,
    diminishes faith.
     
     
    He ordered flowers
    to be sent to his girlfriend
    for he knew she knew.
     
     
    Simple Simon met
    a pie-man who'd sold his pies,
    Simon sez "Hands up!"
     
     
    Chatting with strangers,
    finding commonalities,
    makes the world smaller.
     
     
    (double haiku): Writers, by nature,
    Do not live in the Present,
    They're mining the Past.

    But, some may protest,
    'What about Sci-Fi?' Simple,
    It's Anti-Past ... Ohhhh.
     
    ----------------------------------------------
     
     
    I was looking for something on my office computer and found this poem added onto the end of another document. I vaguely remember writing it about 5 or 6 years ago, but I don't remember the specific impetus for it.  For some reason, I cut and pasted it into an office file and promptly forgot about it: 

     

    They're painting the walls of my little world grey,
    All of the colors are fading away,

    We drain ourselves dry so we match one-to-one,
    Nobody argues, so nobody's won,

    But when nothing is wrong and everyone's right,
    It's like trying to see, when you've turned out the light,

    I'm afraid this is where our dull path has led,
    I yearn for Magenta and Violet and Red,

    All beliefs valid, nothing thought twice,
    It may be perfection, but at too high a price,

    Tolerance a virtue? Yes undeniably so,
    But it must go two ways to continue to flow,

    They're painting the walls of our little world grey,
    And if we allow it, we won't have much to say,

    The world doesn't linger in the grey of the night,
    It pauses there briefly, while it waits for the light,

    Cheer the emergence of the morning sunrise,
    It brings back the colors which melt away lies. 
     
     
     
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