Haiku Is Hard To Hack

Haiku Is Hard To Hack

Haiku is hard to hack,
Oriental skill most poets lack.
May come easy if you have the knack,
enough of them to make a stack.
Records of moments on the track,
Zen stabs you cannot get back.
The paper is white, the ink is black,
capture light that lit the crack.
Be a pilgrim with stick and pack,
scribble in your hermit shack.
Seek why haiku is hard to hack.
If whittling down to haiku is too hard a time,
you can return to the old root of rhyme.

Poet master smiled.
Unseen webbed feet glides the swan.
Haiku hard to hack.

Avant-Garde Busker

Avant-Garde Busker

This concert is not worth the ticket,
I can assure you all.
I can’t even play my instrument,
and my songs are poor beyond recall.

My music is not classed country western,
folk rock, blues, jazz or pop,
and if you want to hear my best song,
you might as well tell me now to stop.

I have no musical education,
certainly no music degree.
My songs have no real foundation,
and I rarely sing in key.

I’m really more like an avant-garde busker,
singing my spontaneous rap,
and as you walk by for the sake of high art and pity,
please put at least one penny in my cap.

I’m not interested in social comment
or proclaiming myself as the new poet prophet of the pen.
If you like the music you are hearing,
you can always walk by me again.

This song for me is quite revolutionary,
unaccompanied by my acoustic Yamaha guitar.
I’m playing on my tone bank computer organ,
worked by a battery to make me a star.

For my muse, I compose my rumpled rondelay,
I would like to sculpt her, spirit, skin and bone.
Her grace would occupy sacred space,
if I had the skills, the tools, the stone.

Donovan sang of Atlantis
and of the hurdy-gurdy man.
Some of us were moved by the message,
but few knew how to follow the plan.

Call me an avant-garde busker,
trying to be free of the trap,
and as you walk by for the sake of high art and pity
please put at least one penny in my cap.

At least one penny, at least one penny,
at least one penny in my cap.

 

 

Dint In The Flint

Dint In The Flint

O ye bins and badges, herons and badgers,
ye throstle throated thistle thorn tub tenders,
ye clapped cloud cymbal tinkle tappers,
hear ye of the knight in the green shadowed wood,
at rest from the quest of the quibbler,
his head on a mound asleep to trickling water sound,
sheltered by his first star of summer shield.
Ye blue sky wind blown wing flyers,
awaken and wash my youth eye in my wise age,
let me follow a leaf through legend’s rural page
to embark on a rowan stage.
And ye that walk but cannot be heard,
talk on a higher pitch than bird,
let me sense you are there in some far off dell,
let me sway secure inside your chrome city bell.
O ye wind jammers on the wet pyjama seas,
O ye pelican bills on the pecked pirate parrot trees,
let me fetch berry baskets back
from the last black berry picking outing
when there was pleasure in the smile,
joy in the shouting.
O ye sparrows and finches
that chirp in the backyard near
take me back to then to be clearly here.
O ye attic bards, basement bards,
O ye walrus whiskered wine merchant
watching Wagon Train on Wednesday
when the weather forecast is due.
Better wrap it up while the vintage
tastes fine as any antique brew.
Ye that are finished with perfection
detect a dint in the flint that no one knew.
The birds have gone from my garden
as if vacuumed from the air.
I pledge my heart will not harden,
still a child bare foot on the stair.

Harper In The Hall

Harper In The Hall

 

Silence in court. All stand for the judge.
All present are on trial.
Let the judgement begin,
the cleansing of crime,
the balancing of sin.

At first I attended to the words.
Distracted by windows and walls,
though willingly left behind,
I heard the culprit calls.

I was a harper in the hall.
The king bid me play after the feast.
Of his servants I was not that high
nor was I among the least.

The sheep upon the mountainside,
startled by a hyena’s howl.
They never ceased to make me smile,
be the weather fair or foul.

Unless my foe stands on the plain,
points his sword at me alone,
I cannot pull back my catapult,
I cannot aim my stone.

Silence. Silence in court.
The verdict has been passed.
Alert again, I shed my dream.
Allowed to go outside,
I joined the others in the empty dark,
pleased to see the jewel lamps gleam.

We Know Who We Were

We Know Who We Were

We know who we were,
as for now, do we know who we are?
We ask the right questions,
the few answers we find,
we mull over, debate.
Wish I could waken from sleep,
find words to crust a tune.
Sail out in a boat on the ocean
to slay the kraken with my light rod,
my radiant harpoon.
Away from the civilized confusion,
the traffic hoot and hum.
Attend to the silence only passing winds disturb.
Back to wood, stone and water,
to bird song in the green wood I come.
We know how we were,
as for now, do we know how we are?
I move my hand over the uncultivated land,
the unharvested ocean.
Wish I could breathe in deep like a whale,
pipe out high like a dolphin,
swim free of shackle, no fortune to fail.

Excursion Back Through Time

Excursion Back Through Time

A fossilized meteor shower
I study through my lens.
A rainbow splash from a comet crash
provides data, a case of chance ancient art.
Put my foot down on the pedal
for my excursion back through time to start.
This insect splayed on a stone
is the ancestor of the spider
or could it be a crab?
Such questions prove that geology
is really far from drab.
My heart would harp,
my soul would sing,
if I found the crown
of an Atlantean king.
Miracles and visions,
you cannot rely on them.
If you want to wear the garment,
you must sew the hem.
First forest I glimpse in my glass.
Horned beasts with hard claws
sniff through tree and grass,
all free of the hunter.
Now the prism flickers with colours,
prepares to open its doors.
Wonder what will be revealed,
what time thought better kept sealed?

After the Asteroid Accident

After the Asteroid Accident

After the asteroid accident,
the dinosaurs were no more.
It happened sixty five million years ago,
the scientists are sure.

Dinosaurs live on in Hollywood,
animated on the screen.
Museums display their skeletons,
picture how their age had been.

Schoolboys play with their dinosaur toys.
They know the names of each kind.
By freak fault and cataclysmic chance
evolved our finite human mind.

That was some accident,
sixty five million years ago,
when an asteroid hit planet Earth,
off the coast of Mexico.

To live on Earth is strange.
It really is quite queer.
Don’t lose your sense of wonder.
Be happy that you’re here.

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