Shaped like a haiku—
words packed tight in foreign breath.
The soul never came.


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https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136302/death-to-hiakus/

This agenda calls for the de-appropriation of haikus in English—a dismantling of a poetic form that, once deeply spiritual and rooted in Japanese culture, has been flattened into a novelty by Western imitation. The 5-7-5 syllable structure, lifted without its linguistic or cultural context, becomes a lifeless shell—used more for kitsch or brevity than meaning.

As a third-generation Japanese American, this critique is not academic or abstract—it’s personal. The haiku, repackaged in English, often feels like a mockery dressed in reverence. It’s cultural cosplay: wearing the form without embodying the spirit. The language lacks the tools to carry the weight haiku was meant to hold—ma, kigo, and kireji don’t survive the translation.

This isn’t rebellion for rebellion’s sake. It’s reclamation. It’s a refusal to let poetic tradition be reduced to a classroom exercise or aesthetic fetish. Through deliberate subversion—anti-haikus, parodies, critiques—the aim is to illuminate what’s been lost and force a reckoning with how easily culture is misrepresented when divorced from its essence.

This isn’t a rejection of haiku. It’s a eulogy for what it becomes when its soul is rewritten in a tongue that cannot speak it.

where the eye understands the light &
the thought is not a forbidden zone
the sand is blue, the escape slow
into quietude

there we discover that
the tears have their own dying
dreams are not birds without sky
the prayers of the earth are heard by the trees

when I take you inside my temples
there the blood boils like a secret
from the depth of the moon

In the winter of
My darkest sadness
A candle glows,
Tiny and so far away.
It gives the darkness
A focal point and I
Struggle my way towards it.

Another candle lights my way.
I don’t know where it came from
But it makes a fearful journey
So much easier to manage,
And I eventually will dance
On thistledown to
The music of the Skylarks
In a sun-filled, cloudless sky.
  ljm

There is no glory in just managing
And small reward for only trying.
Flags cannot be proudly planted
Only half way up the mountain.

Footprints must be left in concrete
Never in the sand of trends
Where tides of fancy wash across them
With only ripples left behind.

Hearts blood must be spilled on altars
Situated in the realm of wonder
Never on the mundane pathways  
Always walked across by Rabble.

Raising up the tallest flagpole
Is a useless exercise
Unless the banner hung upon it
Imparts healing to the masses.

A follower is not the leader.
The helper never wins the crown.
The one who fires the starting gun
Is not the one who wins the race.

There is no gold in rocky caverns
That have all been dug before.
Diamonds can be manufactured
But their shine is not the same.

All that’s left is conquering
Impediments that bar the way
To ribbons, crowns and accolades
That etch your name in history
        ljm

Eyeliner of passion, fire for motivation,
I carve my name on the stone of salvation.
The gem in my ring gleams brighter than day—
A mirror of me, blazing my way.

The traitors cry as I rise, pulling knives from my back,
Let them yap—clearly, I’ve got what they lack.
I don’t care now—my silence is stitched
With the kind of success even their heirs can’t eclipse.

My niche on this earth was carved at birth,
A soul too sharp for this cowardly world.
Mother bore more than a child—she bore a flame,
And nature crowned her brave, giving my name.

Let the dogs bark; they won't cry when I'm gone.
I live for her—she’s the reason I’m strong.
Forget the world, their noise, their bother—
I fight for one: she’s the mother.

Silence,
Quiet,
Abandonment.

Some people know
the art of hurting so well
that they hurt you
where it hurts the most.