It’s been quite a while
since I wrote you a Haiku;
so, here is one now.
By the Book (sic)
Bardly Writ
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Monthly Archives: August 2021
The day we move to Cornwall
The day we moved to Cornwall
from Cornwall,
will be a day indeed;
moving ‘within’ the county
will be a bounty,
for us,
and just the thing we need.
Who died today?
Who died today?
No, not the celebrity, musician,
actor, politician,
monarch, rich man, racing star;
no, the poor individual,
the exploited animal,
the starving child,
that are not headline news:
they died today…
and who even knew?
The discarded Jester
The discarded Jester
began to fester;
the flies had a field day,
and the field flies – they also had a day,
a day, and a night,
and a knight passing by,
saw the discarded Jester
and asked him, ‘Do you want a job?’
.
‘As you can see, my liege
I am under siege
by flies and field flies, too;
I will gladly work for you.’
said the Jester, whose troubles
all seemed so far away,
yesterday.
.
And so began
the Jester’s career
working for Sir Far’n’ Near.
When the Seagulls stole my washboard.
When the seagulls stole my washboard
I just couldn’t play my tune;
I heard them laugh
as they flew away
by the light of the silvery moon.
Fred, the dead red squirrel
Fred, the dead red squirrel,
said to me one day
(from a dream, obviously),
‘I do miss the natter
of everyday chatter,
hazelnuts in batter,
and porridge oats.’
We have these sort of conversations,
in which I oft reply,
‘Dead Fred, you are in my head,
do you mind if we kept it sen-sibble?’
‘Not at all, old chum,’
(he sounded cheerful, but looked glum)
i’It’s all fine by me.’
and then he gave my inner ear
a quick nibble.
The geese police
The geese police never cease;
from Mevageesey to the isles of Greece,
they seek under stones,
they find no peace
always searching as the circles decrease.
.
And people have been heard
from near or far
to loudly comment
about how migreat they are.
Flippity-Floppety Flaherty
Flippity-Floppity Flaherty
he went from town to town,
‘Where I grew up,’ he used to say,
‘was neither up nor down.’
Ode to my Pen
Oh, pen!
Says who?
Says me,
that’s who!
No pen,
so touch-typed
upon my phone.
My pen is
out of ink
and, I think,
worse the wear
for its lack of drink.
Oh, pen!
says me,
once again.
A Pup in a Mug
A pup in a mug
or a hug in a cup?
What’s up?
Who’s down?
Smile or frown?
Tragedian or clown?
Country or town?
War or peace?
Let war cease!
Tension release
and…
calm.
Graeme Sandford 