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

    A Slushy, Snowy Friday Afternoon at the Haikulodeon

     

     
    Here's this week's heap of haikus:
     
     
    Snow defiantly
    sits on a shaky tree limb.
    Wind plots against it.
     
     
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    haiku: Serious people
    should go out of their way to
    validate whimsy.

     

    (Posing with Spondyville's globe-trotting mascot, Stiffy the Snowspondy;  On the left, the head of the Spondylitis society of Slovenia, and on the right, Dr. Matthew Brown, a well-known Spondylitis researcher in Australia.)
     
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    haiku: To the smallest ones
    give large measures of respect;
    troubles drift away.
     
     
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    The falling snow was
    barely perceptible, yet
    his knit scarf got soaked.
     
     
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    tanka haiku: Where have the words gone?
    Too many are speechless or
    worse, they've been muted.

    I'm not talking politics,
    I mean, deep down in our souls.
     
     
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     Whether waging war
    or fighting chronic disease,
    Courage will rise up.
     
     
     
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    There's just Black or White
    in the world of absolutes ...
    There are no rainbows.
     
     
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    tanka haiku: There is a sad fear
    that's buried deep in our hearts;
    that no love will last.

    So we pretend Time's not cruel
    and hope memories won't fade.
     
     
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    It's too warm to wear
    sweaters and corduroy pants.
    Damn, global warming!
     
     
     
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    True-Life haiku quintet:
     
     
    Dozens of people,
    walked right past something wondrous
    and did not notice.

    A bird, with a large
    square 'bread crumb' in its beak,
    ignored us all, and

    kept pecking at the
    chip, then picking it up and,

    dropping it to break it.

    I watched as it kept
    trying ... Determination
    was not rewarded.

    And then, it flew off,
    plastic square still in its beak,
    Hungry and stubborn.
     
     
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    A wink to Winter,
    a nod to the coming Spring.
    I plan my garden.
     
     
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    Up hills and down dales,
    I expand my horizons ...
    aided by sore feet.
     
     
     
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    Bowls of walnuts sit
    on a coffee table made
    of their ancestors.
     
     
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    Nantucket lightships
    cast their beams out to the sea;
    “Warning! Rocky Shoals!”
     
     
     
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    Stashed behind the soups
    in her kitchen pantry was
    the choc’late cake mix.
     
     
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     Sometimes we forget;
    before we ski down mountains,
    we first must climb them.
     
     
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     Her cat likes to play;
    it hides under the bed, and
    stalks her pink slippers.
     
     
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    Two ladies speaking
    rapidly and in Spanish,
    drown out my iPod.
     
     
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    double haiku:
     
    Pricey velvet seats;
    Orchestra, on the aisle ...
    It's Broadway, baby!

    The house lights dim, the
    overture strikes up, and I
    feel alive once more!
     
     
     
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    In spite of the cold,
    a bird sits in a tree and
    sings a song of Spring.
     
     
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     My feet meet the road.
    The road is cordial ... at first.
    Then things get bumpy.
     
     
     
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    A journey at dusk,
    may be swallowed by darkness,
    and done before dawn.
     
     
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    She seemed tightly wound ...
    like a new top, about to
    be spun the first time.
     
     
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    In dense morning fog,
    the field beyond seems painted
    with watercolors.
     
     
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    A cold little bird,
    hops on a slush-y sidewalk,
    Corgis ignore it.
     
     
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    Comments

    start the sequester,

    my temp agency jester;

    feed the fire with chairs.

     


    Ha!  Good one, moat!

    A note to Lester;
    The Sequester will fester
    wounds from yesterday.