Happy Haiku

I wrote a poem once about a bath.

How you emerge from one

‘rosy-skinned and luminous as if

Fresh from a voyage’.

I had a sleep like that last night and wrote this poem.

Small plane vector illustration.

Happy Haiku
You’re a writer.
You wake up with something to say.
Already you feel the wind beneath your wings.
You hop into your little plane
And putter up into the sky
Where you write your happy haiku
Before the breeze blows it away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shelby was Disgusted

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Shelby was disgusted.

She would sleep that night in the refrigerator.

She admired its stern solidity.

At least the mice couldn’t get to her.

And if she felt like a midnight snack, she wouldn’t have far to go.

She hopped in.

It wasn’t long before her teeth began chattering. That would keep her awake. Give her away if he was still in the house.

So she bit down on a leg of lamb.

That seemed to work.

She drifted off dreaming of sheep in thick woolen jumpers serially hurdling fences.

The Red Telephone Booth

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No one writes poems about telephone booths anymore

So I thought I would write one,

about the time I drove down

A series of side roads to avoid a booze bus,

when I almost ran into one.

It was so nostalgic.

It was the sort of booth that Clark Kent would dash into

to change into superman.

I opened the door and went inside.

It stank of stale urine and cigarette smoke.

The paintwork was peeling. There were no phone books

Only numbers,

‘if you’re after a good time call …’, that sort of thing

and anti-gay graffiti.

It looked like

the last telephone booth on the planet before mobile phones

took over.

I closed the door, climbed into my car and drove off,

Heavy as a telephone booth,

into the arms of the booze bus.

Purr

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The challenge was to write a short poem about a domestic chore in a positive, uplifting way. I chose doing the washing:

 

Purr

 

The sheets on the line

Rub against

The warmth of the sun.

 

You can almost

Hear them purr.

 

The Cold

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I love to feel the cold, he says. The cold keeps you sharp, alert. You don’t fall asleep at the wheel when you feel the cold. Your nerve ends ping. The world sparks. There’s no sloth, no lethargy in the cold. Only pure need which is why I’m out here now loping along beneath a lycanthropic moon.