Tag Archives: #poetry. #poem

Seven days of seven Haiku a day – day 1

Seven Haiku days

all in a row – so ‘no’ gaps;

that makes forty-nine.


Senryu are fine –

or a mixture of both types

is also okay.


Starting with the first,

I shall follow a sequence –

but not a seance.


As you can tell here,

my verses are Senryu

which means they’re funny.


I do serious

as often as I shower –

that is once a year.


Okay, maybe not;

it’s maybe more frequently

twice or thrice even.


So, on with the write,

making sure my syllables

add up exactly.

The Day After Autumn Arrives

“Leaves! Leaves! Leaves!

No one believes

the amount of leaves

that will fledge from the trees;

and fall upon my garden.”




“Oh, nothing – it’s just work for me to do.”


“Would you rather they did levitate?”


“No … probably not.”


“Good. Now just get on with your task –

it’s all I ask.”


“Thanks, G! Perhaps you could lend a hand?”





And the winds did blow

And the leaves did fall

And so I chased after them –

And G looked down


and had a ball.

Awesome Autumn

Autumn is …


that’s all I can say,

as I just used the similarities

of the words

to fuel my word play.

In Autumn / The Fall

In Autumn,

a leaf fell;

in the Fall,

it also fell;

be it one or the other,

the result was the same:

the first to fall,

I have found,

presages a general

leaf fest upon the ground.









Well, that’s the sort of Rainbow

that I can relate to.

The Writting is upon the Wall

“The Writting is upon the Wall

its Spelt wrungly, but its their!”

Give me a prompt

Give me a prompt,

or a subject to write to,

and I’ll write you a poem –

or, at least, I will try to;

I might not succeed

in penning a classic;

but, I’ll give it my best

‘Park & Ride’

to the island Jurassic –

whatever that means.

As I am (slowly) going to St. Ives …

As I ‘am’


going to St. Ives

the fear and trepidation within me thrives,

for waiting there

for me to come

is a creature fierce

that will strike me dumb.

I cannot name that fearsome beast,

nor describes its features, least-

-ways, I could,

but doing so

would do no good,

for then the fear

would within ‘you’ rise,

and terror seep into your eyes.

Needless to say,

I just might not survive

this terminous day.

‘As I walked around with a sprig of Buddleia in my hat’

As I walked around

with a sprig of Buddleia in my hat

a bee hopped on board,

then a butterfly,

then more

and more

and more,

until I had become a veritable charabanc

for the flying fraternity –

and a sight to see I was at that.

If I haven’t got …

If I haven’t got

a poem

upon the subject in hand,

I hope you’ll understand

if I give you a poem

upon an entirely differing subject altogether.


Rather than tails of black cats,

chasing butterflies, bees, and belfry bats,

my poem could be about the presence of ghosts,

the absence of Dodos,

or the burnings of toasts

that I had known.

But, you can be sure,

that the poem’s mine own,

for whom so else

would write such tosh?

It has to be me,

with my pigs will slosh.