I am no Haiku;
I might look like one,
but I assure you, I’m not.
It is a surprise
to ev’ry single person
when a Haiku turns
from quiet and safe
to being a vicious thing –
like a mad tiger.
When you choose Haiku,
be sure you can care for them;
they’re for the long haul.
We passed
like sheeps in the night,
exchanging glances
with no one,
passing comments with the night,
counting the sheeps that passed us, too;
as they glanced our way
and exchanged comments
to the stars that shone, not.
She sells seashells on the Seychelles sea shore…
she used to sell seashells on the Scilly Isles sea shore;
sadly, she stopped selling Scilly Isles shells on the Scilly Isles sea shore,
where she swore she sold several seashells;
but the taxman said she sold many, many more.
When a Haiku dies
there is a time of mourning,
in the afternoon.
If I remember correctly
the last laugher laughs longest;
but, I could be wrong –
memory serves me well,
or not,
as it sees fit.
And, IIRC,
he who hesitates
is lost –
or found,
as my feet touch the ground,
or leave it.
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