To the untrained eye
most modern art -
'modern'  meaning anything
this century or less -
though luminously painted
remains mysterious
and at times a shock,
a shock so great
as to render one speechless,
minus even a syllable,
on the gallery's contents

Though a friend of mine
a respected artist
was heard to say
as she left the exhibition
"scrambled egg, scrambled egg"

The purple prose
of the local paper-
trying to imitate
the tabloid press
with its flaming headlines-
describing the animal
seen in the headlights
of a reporter's car
very late at night
is a bit over-ripe
in the cold light of morning

Imagination,
versatile thinking
makes a good Haiku

Five syllables (short)
Seven syllables (longer)
and five more to end

The poetry group
teaches us many new things
including Haiku

"The length of a lyric"
the writer explained
over a cup
of what looked like tea
"depends on eroding
a concept held dearly
down to its heartwood
to let it sing free"

I'm wending my way
to the poetry group
trying to frame
from alphabet soup
some rhythmic offering
by way of a change
from shame-faced admittance
"I've nothing"- how strange!
But just as I join them
with something to say

They're doing Haiku