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ivey c Sep 2014
when i turn to you
expecting your smile, i see
the back of your head.

it's too familiar
of a sight. i don't know why
i even bother.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
i can sit on a windowsill that encompasses
my right **** cheek, for days,
and laugh out a can...
because it's the feeling that infuses passing
and pst with memorabilia of the museum;
hence i caught hearing a ****.*

man tries to b funny in greater number,
make him less and war answers....

when deftones released white pony i was circumference
jogging over the moon more than
when red hot chilli peppers released the album
containing under the bridge...

i'm still sitting on the window sill with one **** cheek...

oh the ****...

japanese ensō poetry will debauch the haiku...
i say: 'the only interruption of ensō
poetry is a toilet break... i'm drinking and writing,
i'm not going for haiku short and quickie
****** for the needy...
ensō poetry is like prosaic poetry of
europeans lying rather than hiding their
sociological lie attempt...'

when you write ensī you write without interruption,
of course you can be interrupted, like a leap year,
but i am writing confessing to
the superiority of ensī over haikus...
haiku is brief and spring,
it's a maxim you wish to never fulfil or prove,
regardless of proof or the valued truth in it...

the ensī are like haiku, although with european
poetic excess of narration,
but **** up it's not about the quantity of the narration,
i know the purposive art technique behind imagism,
it's about fluidity: and a measure of want of editing.

the ensī are perfected when you leave them
as they are...
                       they alone know when to end,
                       they alone know when to recede.

but in my paediatric diary i noted something odd
with that olive skinned child by the quasi mosque
gripping my fingers:

warm hands are heat-bed of brain (exponential
imagination, solipsism all the time, asexuality),

and my hands cold (warm heart, the brain dead when
imagination chooses either phonetic symbols
or treats phonetic symbols as mathematical
and creates mickey mouse),

the same thing happened to me...
when a single mum with a blond haired child
started to read to me in german,
and i started gentle silent crying with a beer.

but still: the ensī are the new, better, elongated
haikus.... just because europeans can't
manage keeping their mouths shut,
and to treat them cheap... i wonder if they can
elongate into narration from the haikus they fake
in order to resemble an understanding of metaphor.

put the kabbalah way into the noun allah...
(allah, a noun famous for also being a maltese croissant)
you get llh and a, a...
then look at the story... adam didn't bow to iblis...
two adams already... i know of Abigail...
but i'm working from a narrative most people
repeat to a blood drenched maxim...
a and adam, a and iblis... no e for an eve talking first...
women remain hidden, veiled,
otherwise the noun yahweh mentions
adam and eve... and the geometry of y, h, and w
is more than l and h can offer;
but as i decided long ago, monotheistic gods
are gamblers, they presupposed the existence of money,
so you can have large scale bureaucracies of theocracy,
sheiks, among them most notable sheikh hassan i sahba
and sheikh casbah... not like the mohikan gods
of pure tribalism (tribal cultures don't use money,
civilisations use money) with the godheads of deer,
crows, arrow splinters that are crafted into tribunals
of newtonian physics, and as is said of einstein:
your relativity forces a straight into a magnetic field
that bends straight lines of flighty.
michelle reicks Jun 2011
I remember when
ice was glass and the sky flew
That line makes no sense

Haikus are dific—

Haikus are quite hard.
This poem is total crap…. now.
….
refrigerator.

I ponder meaning
and the purpose of haikus.
A watermelon.

Seven syllables
what is the point of these things?
I am so bored now

just saying the words
omitting lines that make sense
‘cuz of syllables

I should just give up
But it’s finally easy
Okay, maybe not
Sydney Ann May 2015
Falling out of love:
Back to reality, oh
there goes gravity

He was my gravity.
Does my gravity miss me?
(I chose to let go)
Poetry by MAN Mar 2014
A Beauty you are out and within
I have an insatiable desire to write poetry on your skin
Your body my canvas feel my gentle brush
Writing ******* with my ****** touch
Cinnamon lips I love your tone
Soft and silky to the bone
Finding words..be my guide
As we connect I come inside
Filling each other..there's no strain
Steady my thoughts I must maintain
Watching my penmanship using a steady stroke
I start hallucinating from my mental smoke
Sends me into a frenzied flow
I'll find my pace..go on a roll
My words soak in as you taste
My emotions invade your inner space
Down from your toes..Up to your eyes
Writing Haikus between your thighs
Poetry on your body every inch
You start writhing from my Scorpion pinch
Sinfully venomous my words forever sink
Into your skin my poetic tattoo ink
As you lay naked I visually feast
Every line of your body a masterpiece..
M.A.N 3-7-14 One of my favorites I really enjoyed writing this poem..^_*  ♏
Brandon Nov 2012
Work is boring, I'd 
Rather be home sleeping in
A nice comfy bed 

Work is boring, I'd 
Rather be smoking a joint
And watching TV

Work is boring, I'd 
Rather be drinking a beer
And drunk barroom brawls

Work is boring, I'd 
Rather be out surfing the
Gnarly ocean waves

Work is boring, I'd 
Rather stick my arm in a 
Blender; cause some fun

Work is boring, I'd 
Rather be out banging some
Coked up prostitutes 

Work is boring, I'd
Rather dig my brain out thru my
My ears with a fork

Work is boring, you 
Can tell because I'm writing
Too many haikus
Arlo Disarray May 2015
I found a four leaf clover hoping it would help me write
But I just kept writing haikus and other short, miserable *****
So I made a big spit about vanity, and how all other poets were lame
Spewing all my most petulant thoughts, and in time, soiling my name

But although I'm now seen as a fool,
a sad, childish, pathetic clown
I'm still trying to pretend I'm cool
And attempting to bring you all down

Education never made it passed basic spelling
But I still hope to write words at least somewhat compelling
It's unfair and you ****, all your words are so old
Stay away from my rainbow and my *** of gold!
Ormond, you inspire me with how awful you are. Thanks, buddy! Love ya, dear. <3
Chris T Apr 2014
such a greasy pan.
mornin' bacon sizzlin' - our
cholesterol high.
the first of many from new project because i'm bored.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
Road Trip: Thinking it's about time (find yourself within II)

This particular poem was born as a one line response to a message.  But in many other forms, half written, it exists still, un, unfinished, waiting for the next burst energy, the next holiday time, to reach a new finish line.

This is a different but similar to a poem posted on June 2nd, "Poetry Round (find your self within)"

Any error of omission is unintentional, but know that this took many hours, until fatigue won. If you never told or revealed to me your location, know that you will be called out, to and unto me, in another poem, called "your banner is my flag."


Fact about me:  You design me.
-------------------------------------------------------

th­inking it's about time for a road trip.

create an excuse
(reasons, I got a plenty)
to stop by,
to show you another side of me,
for a drink, a meal,
and some kind
of exchange, of
form and fluids,
manner to be determined.

to come to Minneapolis,
watch you create a heated sensuality,
verbally, from melted snowdrifts,
a hot time to be had
by all the poets
of the mini-apple,
I want to meet
and celebrate ann victory.

travel to Thiruvananthapuram,
tour the treasures
of gold and diamonds,
from whence come
the bejeweled poems,
that have earned visits from
thousands upon thousands,
pilgrims, devotees, followers,
to partake at that, his,
special temple.

Gomer, Gomer,  & MJJ,
I am in your Florida,
no, sorry, not in Ocala,
near to your homer,
and I feel you springer
ten times in the
November sun rays,
that have me locked
in a full Nelson,
your productivity,
endless,
a sea of orange sunburnt words,

Tennessee,
The Carolinas,
Georgia,
The South,

I rise with it,
now, again,
that I will need a slow
sunny all lazy summer long to
learn y'alls ways,
see the wolves,
in your forests,
helm the riverboats,
navigate the quaint tides
of Charleston,
the special places
where they heal, le ville,
where the ashes of
burnt children,
retuned to be whole.

learn y'alls ways,
walk in your boots,
of seeing poems
using your special
southern saber words.

missed the original
Thrilla-in-Manila,
but rest easy, assured,
that hotbed of creativity,
where I check the
PH of the mc waters
to comprehend its
wisdom and now, it's sadness,
will be an illustrious destination
on my itinerant itinerary,
stopping by Makati City,
after all,
it is writ in the good book,
this island,
the PhilippineS,
is the birthplace
of the letter S,
Samples: samson, sally,
and So many others?

in Nevada City,
which is of course in
krazy California,
wager philosophy, romance,
be available for
succinctly seeing
works in progress,
from which I
will imbibe,
so **** deeply,
may have to
stay awhile for...

while I am there,
will need to do
a search and
Hug Mission,
to find a special man,
his unkempt prose,
his mortal rhymes
disguise not his holy worth,
even to the grassy
cal-stratosphere,
to the mesosphere,
will I high fly,
to find his sweetest spot,
then and thereafter
going looking
further on to
Humboldt County.

in Leeds, in West Yorkshire,
(Hamphshirians, Northamptontonians,
patience please)
built foundries and factories
over the magical forest of Loidis,
near to the river Aire,
yet still hides a
magical sorceress of words,
casting spells over
men and beast.
no one has seen full
her half-turned away face,
but when she summons,
do I have a choix
other than obey?
even if I get lost,
my sorceress,
you know,
I am on way too.

to get there,
will fly I must,
to Heathrow hell,
will do it,
just for you,
faithful friend,
a man da gotta do, what
a man gotta do...for you,
but first a stop off at the
London School of Economics,
Hampstead as well,
for a tutorial about sonnets,
or sams in wells,
even if I come
in my bare feet.

even in New York Upstate,
a man da gotta do,
what he mulls over in his heart,
be not surprised at a knock upon
your door, to make comparative notes,
about each other's tattoos.

in the South African veld,
hid in the highland grasses,
crouches the poetesses and tigresses,
waiting to ambush you
with words that must be seen
to be heard, to be well understood.
perhaps I'll come at ester time,
under blue indigo skies over,
a golden landscape,
seizing all the gems
that can be seen
only at 3:00am

leeward,
north to Canada,
must I, transgress,
country of my momma's birth,
fly from Montreal to Toronto, Calgary
then over to Vancouver.
Canada,
a dangerous place for me,
cause there are beautiful
souls up there,
and maybe even a
warrant to
repossess mine,
they want their
poets back.

double down by ferry,
me to Seattle,
to see a man about river,
in the Pacific Northwest,
where I have happily
drowned so many times,
that The Lord is complaining,
am hogging all the baptismal waters,
but when reminded that
nothing lasts forever,
here tomorrow,
gone today, walk on,
I add my tears
to that river,
before hitting the road.

on that river,
gonna drive me a kayak,
down Daytonway,
on the Yamill River,
see a gyreene marine,
watching me do a beach landing,
in Willamette Wine Park.
he will teach me to salute,
I will teach him how to
shake hands,
and learn from him,
it's ok,
to stand down.

man o' man
there are a lots of poets,
in these here parts,
this grand
Pacific North West,
looking for one in particular,
who will be quite easy to spot,
as he is my very own
soul brother.

will be easy to find,
though we have never met,
he will be on his kayak,
I on mine,
tho when he paddles,
somehow he manages
to hold
never letting go
of, his lovely bride,
his best half's hands.

this will a problem,
for I must teach him how to
shake two handed souls,
while hugging and paddling,
even bailing,
with an old dented pail
simultaneous.
but you can teach old dogs
new tricks, even the ones,
that can't spell
rhymers.

have mercie on me Ohio,
like a mother has to her daughter,
done a three year sentence in Cleveland,
but no jail can hold an NYC boy,
but if requested, yes I will return
to set fire to the *
Cuyahoga,
again! he he he...
but do not s mock me!
(now you know why the FBI loves
my poetry, my biggest institutional fan).

souls in torment,
where you be,
where you hide,
matters not where
you physical reside,
for we have found
each other
in each other words.

You, who live in
your very own
personal hell,
I think we met there,
because
yours was
mine too,
tho not found
on any map.

maybe I will meet the
Empress Josephine Maria,
rowing on the canals of
the Netherlands,
no longer will she be
alone.

but then again, some
very special things,
like
the purest of love
are on no map,
they are everywhere.

while in India,
will seek the many musings of many lips
of aged rhyme men
and complicated charmers
so I may kiss them
with spiced humors
to pour and pour,
more and more,
upon this western soul,
mysteries of the east,
to Kashmir, Bangalore,
wherever I must,
even take a praDip in the Ganges,
I will go, find you,
un-hide you,
among the
teeming millions,
millions of
jokes and rhymes,
that make the
world spin brighter.

in Germany,
all the university students
speak English,
in Wiesbaden, they know
poetic beauty is not in the format,
some in Bamberg,
with a peculiar
Missouri accent,
which is nicht gut Englisch,
so study hard the real way,
speak the language
the new yorka way,
which will require
study abroad,
which is quite funny,
now that I think about it.

but in Mo.,
the native drums roll,
long and slow,
making words
I know
better, different,
in a way never saw before,
leaves me asking for,
mo', mo', please?

to get there, to Allemagne,
land of my forefathers,
a ship I will take,
from Southampton
across the Kiel Canal,
before I depart,
will have my hair cut,
my words reworked,
by her Ladyship,
whose keen eyes and
maternal instincts,
see the joy of life in every
Livvi little thing.

Watt am I going to do if
I need to find a Tecumseh,
taker of my naked poems,
and enlarger of them,
so truth by her,
all revealed,
we are all naked
at least,
twice a day?

In Nepal I will purr at the words
gleaned from the markets and
train stations where
voyages from Lalitpur to Katmandu,
start and end,
where there is a miracle almost
sixteen years young,
where they call their schools
future stars and little angels,
so why should poetic miracles not be
as common as its subtropical clime?

though I despise the
Dallas Cowboys,
not my  America's team,
nonetheless there is a young woman,
a true rose of Texas,
who waits and writes
so lovingly of her airman,
in Afghanistan, I have placed
their names first,
in my nighttime prayers,
hoping to be there,
schedule my visit,
to witness his safe return
and their
joyous reunification.

there are no Mayans in Maine,
but poets of similar name,
kould be, mae be,
Julia's in Jersey, new,
in Auckland,
there are poets
who don't know it,
and Down Under, too,
where getting high is easy,
getting high at
and on words
well marshaled ,
but **** sure I will be
peering and prring,
all the way.

Oregon,
don't be gone,
those wide eyes shut,
when I come by,
who knows when I
will pass this way again...
on my way to Phoenix,
where sunrayes bend to the
desires of dessert breezes.

Kentucky to Korea,
one long road to travel,
but middle son,
if you can do it,
so can I, and,
I will follow.

in a beautiful city,
unsurprisingly called
Belleville,
the leader of the band,
still leads us in belle 'noise'
and when he finishes
fall leafing us in song, he still,
rises up in the mid of dark,
prayerful haikus to write.

off to Rogers, Arkansas
to meet an Italian from Mexico
who specializes in skinny poems,
something one day I will be too.

maybe I will go to
places it snows,
there are so many,
but your photo,
and tattoo trail,
clues, will follow,
no matter how hard
you make it a mystery.

you, who live in just
the world,
don't even think,
that crazy dotted lines,
unstraight,
or huge plains,
are sufficient,
to hide your
moody dust trail
from me!

somewhere in the USA,
roses grow in ground
that needs the
watering of tears,
though this place
is hard to find,
ha, turn around,
that is me,
tapping you,
on the shoulder!

will find you,
as I am searching for
a lovely pair
of stockinged ankles,
each with a heart tattoo,
but I sure could use
a clue,
before this hobbit searches
all the shire,
derby hatted,
to find your
heart real, and the real you...

my mode of time travel?
why I am just
a dude on a rocket ship.

Wisconsin,
look for my ruby message
in the snow,
in the dust,
in the sand, the skies, the sea,
but will you answer me?

Pittsburgh,
patient, you've been,
you thought I forgot
all about you,
chimera  at the intersection
of three rivers,
all you need wonder,
upon which one
will my ship arrive
and why you still disbelieve
you are not a poetess!

ME oh my,
you too, a hidey hole got,
but, we are strange, we humans,
we would gladly bleed to please,
If we could but find
a combination of
new words that
would your heart gladden,
your eyes tear,
your lips wear,
a smile of pleasure
at our offerings poetic!
but still I know not,
the where!

Lagos,
where
I shall climb the tallest skyscraper,
calling out in Yoruba,
where is my Temitope?
where is mine,
worthy of thanksgiving
so I may carry my Popoola,
my pole of her of
written wealth?


Mombasa, Singapore,
Maryland, Rhode Island, Kentucky,
Huddersfield, Connecticut Joe, Ireland,
South Dakota,

where the merry elders
well ken somethings
about a moon and tattered clouds,
something about children and dogs,
and something about letting
tomorrow's wait.

Milwaukee, Atlanta,
chuck, in *PA.,
friend to all,
to all those scattered across these
United States of America.

can we dare not mention
"The Shaq" of Malaysia,
South Sudan, Pakistan,

of course not!

Suburbia,
beautiful, black San Diego, Detroit;

The BBB's -

British Columbia, Brazil, Breendonk, and
B'kara!
the goodness of *
Boston,
flipping out in Flipadelphia,

did you think I would forget ya?

those of you hiding among 64 stars,
the groves of L.A',
on the lanes,
the special land of I-sia-Bella,
fellow citizens of Neverland,
those of you 'at home,'
in the land of nightmares,
concrete boxes,
those who post without a doubt,
and in the box,
this who think your birth year
is an identifying mark, not,
you never fooled me,
will visit each and everyone.


even and especially,
the grays of crosstown
NYC,
the red writers of my hood,
the tylers too.

I am exhausted,
forgive me well,
if thy locale,
I did not explicate,
for the hour is very late.

yet thru subtle fissures
in the clouds,
look for a tired old man
on the wings of a
chariot drawn by angels,
bringing you a dictionary
full of new words,
a present for you,
but truly,
a present to himself
for from it,
your future poems
will come.

*but the sun has come up,
so now I sleep.
1.  What makes this poem special, if anything, is the trust and confidences we share with each other, that allowed me to perhaps catch just little bit something special of each of you, where I could.

2. Can anyone explain to me why the site labels this poem explicit?
Grace Darling Aug 2017
"haikus are easy"
i guess that may be correct
but they're the best

this type of writing
may restrict word selection
but it can be done

they force me to be
more aware of my word choice,
concise and succinct

just five syllables
followed by only seven
can convey so much
Haikus are my favorite kind of poetry
Evie G Feb 2021
If you were to ask me what boredom was, I’d tell you were boring and to stop asking stupid questions, but if you really persisted, I would tell you boredom is the tick tock on the white clock on the white wall of our English classroom.
it’s the thrill of seeing how many dried crackers you can cram into your mouth before your mouth becomes a cracked and dried desert. Boredom is
making up haikus,
Alone but not quite knowing,
How many syllables go on each line
Boredom is haikus.
Boredom is
the decapitation of innocent
grass blades as you listen to an unenthused sports teacher
the blood of your unwitting enemies splattered on your fingers.
Boredom is this boring poem


Now you were never one for boredom;
you enjoyed sitting on the grass, getting a soggy ***,
you enjoyed the crunch of crackers snapping on your tongue,
you really enjoyed
and I still do not know why
making up haikus
you enjoyed the long languorous spaces between lines...





and I guess that really was just you.
But recently the silence has been getting short its rudely interrupted
by forced laughs and nervous glances from eyes that recently went shopping


You jump at every crunch or crack, scared of well…
I don’t know .

And your poetry,
Well, you barely write anymore because you just can’t seem to muster up the energy and you’re just tired and its nothing to worry about and it doesn’t matter anyway because you have an English essay due tomorrow yeah-


And the grass misses your ***


And I miss you


And there’s someone in your place, a lethargic parody, too frightened to pick up the phone, frightened by nothing at all
There’s a black hole in the shape of a friend
hidden behind the comets of comedy and asteroids of avoidance there’s a small hole


I reach in… grasping for a hand,
I catch glimpses. tufts of hair. old coffee smiles
but… nothing
so, I try again

I reach in, grasping for a hand, or even a bone
I catch glimpses of skin, hair, teeth, bone. Nothing
and each time I throw myself into the silent abyss,
batter past the comets and asteroids and reach into that dark expanse I find less and less,
I miss you


I am right outside,
whenever you’re ready to,
we can talk a bit


I’m trying my best ,
and I really care for you ,
but haikus are dumb
accept it, it’s true.


The spot of grass is waiting right where you left off,
the crackers in the tin are there just waiting to be scoffed.
if ever in that silence
you feel yourself alone
just know that in my house,
you’ve found yourself a home.
Hey there! so i actually just won my schools poetry competition with THE HARRY BAKER judging so i can now die happy my life is complete oh my god. This is essentially an extended version of a poem i wrote back in November i think, it really takes on a new meaning and (i might be bias here) i think is worth the read ? Anyway, any feedback would be lovely, thanks
Also, willing to debate the validity of haikus because i think they are terrible
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
sensible history begins with a, b, c, x y z... it doesn't begin with the lascaux cave paintings... that's hardly an attempt to make the gazelle cryptic from 3d to 2d... we're talking making human history beginning with encryption... modern day programming... and with the birth of a - z is the beginning of human history... the limb of darwinism categorising us in the simplicity of animals lost... it won't work otherwise asking for artistic comparisons... i'm talking the lost effort to show how we started to think, for we started to forget the lascaux representations as the vector of direct articulation... to the representation of the vector of indirect articulation, until hitting the brick walls... the kantian a priori e = mc squared / tetragrammaton... which no monkey could have originated with in that robinson crusoe story without the beginning of the onomatopoeia ooh ooh rub the belly tap the head eat a banana: words are the x-rays of images.... at least the chinese ones were animate... and the latin cain & abel were simple.... originating in the musicology with the sire - lessened. western europe sang; eastern europe fudged a wolf pack in the **** segmentation of the full throttle of curses via retina dilated for the full pleasure of culture. there was always the korean quirk-fest with the south, it was always a question of the north... i almost jumped  the bandwagon of chi and complex phoneticism in the complex usage of mongol-anglo correctness chi via sire... to make 仁 (ren / jen) as simple as apple to distinguish lactose from fructose; tell me latin was as simple as hebrew and mandarin as complex as xylophone notation.... where the former was atomisation and the latter compounds with one identifying 26 sounds and the latter identifying 26,000 nouns / images.*

so... so you get to repeat yourself
from tokyo to las vegas?
fascinating, the classic crowd pleaser,
and the loss of rivers constantly
winding with the coordinates (0,0)...
well here’s one from the z-axis... harps of the snooze
will govern the surveillance parameters
of attempted anonymity of that “return to” state
prior to being the same in the global framework persistence
of advertisement and charities;
after all... just a bunch of mongrel dogs ******* your leg
with unexplored narcissism due to acne.
ah yes... the fame part of translating a hiatus into
an existential haiku of creativity;
well, we can't beat the chinese or the blue indians
on this... they might only write poetry in the form
of haikus... but there's a billion of each!
the red indians are a zoological specimen / white man
erasing them due to the cuisine of scalp ******* baked goodies...
no, but seriously... there are about 4 million norwegians,
and there's a book out there that a tenth of norwegians have...
poetry in large building blocks of man
provide scarce poetry... haikus... the narrative is cherished
with taxes and caring for grandparents...
it's **** beside that... i mean, didn’t the cavity of
taking photography undermine out photographic memorisation
of things? there’s no memory to think about with a photograph.
Latreece Rose Jan 2015
His body was taint
craved desire yet lethal
mercy lost, tasteless.

****** lustful
he kissed my tender moist lips
and caressed my waist.

I was a ******
though I thought of *** often
and prayed for my prince.

The boy touched the girl
smooth and inappropriate
her tummy tickling.

I arrived home late
cannabis calming my thoughts
liquor my lover.

I smoked cigarettes
and thought about his soft touch
him an addiction.

He would say my name
murmur low “Evangeline”
and control my youth.

Wanna-be poet
eighteen and always failing
haikus a joy.

I write in my mind
the 5-7-5 a puzzle
sleepless nights my friend.

All artists are poor
embracing weirdness, difference
rebellious baby cubs.

I am a panda
elephant or an ant queen
maybe a mermaid.

Not so little now
but exploring earth and sea
born in the 90s.

The Holy Spirit,
it resides in my body,
my body its own.

God said, “Let us make”
stating he was not alone,
that God is of three.

He is the Father,
The Creator of mankind
and all creeping things.

Jesus is the Son,
born to humanly connect
and die for our sins.

The Holy Spirit,
it is our heavenly soul
and image of God.

And Lucifer fell
God saying to go away
his beauty erased.

Daddy told me “pray,
and beauty will not leave you
and love will remain”.

Mommy is gone, dead
her voice and whispers a corpse
her skull remaining.

A pencil took love
American love too good
and of much horror.

Not ****** and cruel
but psychological pain
of regret and doubt.

My love was fire
illicit and illegal,
robbery of trust.

As if in prison
I was a caged animal
howling to escape.

His tongue, it danced slow
waltzing a tango flapper
in the loud 2os.

He approves of tears,
mine an arousal of sight
and he enters me.

He is my neighbor
about thirty or forty
who likes to smoke ****.

He would lure me in,
asked if I liked poetry,
a warm, young poet.

He read me sonnets
while I decoded couplets
his breath on my face.

Like strong peppermint
or cinnamon or maple
I was like a treat.

Milk chocolate delight,
a chai tea latte invite,
vanilla frosting.

I could have said no,
pushed him away and ran home,
but I liked his house.

Wanna-be poet
wasting time on a high man
Europe to explore.

He was not Britain
Nor was he Italy or
Switzerland or France.

He could not be Greece
nor Ireland or Norway
or Sweden or Spain.

He was Nevada
or Wyoming or Kansas
even Nebraska.

California sun
Washington and Oregon rain,
west coast was he not.

He himself was taint
saying “my love, my dear love,
my Evangeline.”

“My Evangeline,
my poet, my lover…young,
oh Evangeline”.

I think of Jesus,
the Holy Spirit and God,
fallen Lucifer.

An angel so bright
He could not let go of pride
And I’m falling, too.

Asleep I fall to
a song behind his split tongue
agony inflamed.

So I write of this,
an affair of poetry
spectacular, no.

She wishes for death
haikus of religion
and of sweet taint love.

Oh Evangeline,
The Holy Spirit weeps, too
your tears its own tears.
Astral Dec 2018

I just want to vent,
I want to fuss and complain,
So I write haikus.

*

You don't control me.
I don't even control me.
So please, just back off.


What even are we?
It's up to you to decide,
Its driving me mad.


I could just go on,
Anyway, what is the point?
Oh yeah, I'm stressed.
Oof, sorry for so many vents..
Emily Fay D Feb 2011
the world is a stage
but here i am the critic
a cold beer and smile.

life is quite easy
written in english haiku
we're not symbolic.

it feels like summer
but only inside my thoughts
i think i'll skip class.

it all dies right here
responsibility loss
**** i hate that word.

i mean it has like
six syllables in one word
**** ******* haikus.

but you know they're fun
easy to write and polish
polish, not polish.

so i'm skipping class
seriously, what the ****
am i doing now?

absolutely squat.
i'm missing a test right now
crap i ******* ****.

but i did a test
in communications though,
which isn't bio.

i think i'm going
to go play world of warcraft
and worry later.
Written February 7, 2011
M Clement Mar 2013
I
"I never thought," said
She awaiting responses
I cared none at all
II
Bring about all change
Said the women in the hats
Voting for switched thoughts
III
Irreversible
Unexplained, mispoken thoughts in
Slightly elder speech
IV
Steampunk, take old junk
Make them into something grand
The robotic hand
V
If I were asian
I'd eat my cultural food
In Panda Express
VI
Ironic, lightly
Grazing lions on the grass
The Antelope hunt
VII
Haikus for all yous
Travelling down the dirt roads
Win Sobriety
VIII
**** jokes take folks and
Make them into prudes, so rude,
But I keep joking
IX
I'm at nine, can't stop
I'll keep writing till the drop
Of the pen runs dry
X
I pay no heed to
All the words said by Sifu
I am poor student
I figured, why not try haikus.
Brandon May 2012
I’m addicted to
writing haikus; always coun---
ting on my fingers

I’m addicted to
writing haikus; always coun---
ting five - seven - five
Annabella Feb 2014
I know what's
Beyond the curtains and It's just
an emptier room.

It's like I'm stuck
At the bottom of a well and all
I can mange to do is look up and
Shrug my shoulders.

Buildings crumble,
Sculptures fade,
Why make art if it always rains?
Alys Jun 2010
Oh Sally Lightfoot
With your limpet-crusted shell -
What a well dressed crab.

Crayfish, how is it
That your skeleton is on
The outside of you?

The female lobster
Lays a hundred thousand eggs:
Thermidor for all.

Furry crustaceans
Found in the South Pacific -
Can ***** be cuddly?

Can you fall in love
When your heart is in your head?
Wish mine was too, shrimp.
Raphael Uzor Apr 2014
What I thought was love
Was really just head knowledge
Love is way deeper!

Such grace, undeserved!
Too obscure for mere mortals
God's agape LOVE!

Unconditional!
Loving me beyond my will-
And without merit!

Loving me dearly,
He instilled His love in me
Letting me love Him...*


© Raphael Uzor
The subject of love has been gravely adulterated due to gross frivolity!
Eden Frenkel Nov 2018
Haikus #1
Lost sense of beauty
Satellites don’t work no more
Disruptive feelings

Haikus #2
Dragonflies warble
Warble, heavy fluttering wings
Harden, smiling leaves

Haikus #3
Fresh laughters under
The hot beaming smiling sun
An endless highway

Haikus #4
It struggles to get up
Being lost before found
In the reckless night
AmberLynne Jul 2014
Tiny buds push up
Popping their heads out to ask,
"May we come to play?"

Louisiana
Distinction between seasons
Almost unnoticed

Perfection now, but
mosquitoes will swarm us soon.
Spring is oh too short

The world is melting
Shuddering off her top coat
To display her skin

Spring-so colorful
But you want to know the truth?
Winter's more my style.
A series of haikus I wrote in spring. I live in Louisiana, so spring isn't much of a season :P
ALEXANDER K OPICHO

(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)

Poetry is a network of rivers
One river flowing into another
A big river into a small river
A small river into a big one
Some rivers are dead in the catacombs
Others are rapidly flowing down
And up their course making noisy
Roaring waterfalls and poetic whirlpools
Full of the ripple circumlocution as
The whirlwind of gales in the harmattan
And this is the spirit of poetry.

I will sing the songs of Schiller
Hugo, Shakespeare the bard
Alexander Pushkin and Mayakovski,
Homer and Dante the Frenchman son of Maugham
And Dante the Italian father of the divine comedy,
I will sing their songs as they are European rivulets
Of poetry flowing into huge water masses
Of African poemocracy in which
The poetic dystopia is clearly
Couched in the gears of black and white.

I will sing and chant the songs of India
Land of Tagore by shouting his name
Rabitranathe Tagore! Sing for me
The ways of the Indian baby
Your Indian voice is mellifluous like the
Zulu ****** dances Song in full watch
Of King Mswati with dint of libido.

I will sing the songs of revolution
From Bolivia and Chile, neighbours
Of Mexico and Brazil; Brazil in which
Pablo Neruda the dog burrier is a religion
In which was born Paul Freire who forgot
To sing for the world chants and the songs
Of pedagogy of the dystopian poet
Pedagogy of the utopian thespian
Pedagogy of the dystopian bourgeoisie
Pedagogy of the cacotopian capitalist
And pedagogy of the utopian Marxists
Who are mealy mouthied with mutton in  between their ears
Manufacturing and venting dystopian phantasmagoria
I will sing.

Poetry is the river Nile of Africa
Cradling from Uganda at Entebbe
Flowing to Egypt into the Mediterranean Sea
Leaving the statue of Mahatma Gandhi at the cradle
Chanting the pearls of the satyagra
That; in God there is truth and
In truth there is God,
As poetry of Nile flows upwards
Not carrying only poems of love
Or bourgeoisie cosmetic Haikus
Singing carols of summer and Christmas day
But its poetic fluvial is washing away
The heavy social **** of Globalectics
Fearing Pushkin and his love
Shakespeare and his **** of Lucrece
Vladimir Mayakovski and
His slap in the face of public taste,
Schiller and his Cassandra
Master Homer and his Odysseus Iliad
Mocking in an ugly  snook
The Albatross book of the English verse
In tune with Yeats and Rudyard Kipling
Reversing the stanzas to sing of
The world as the Whiteman’s burden.

I will sing everyman and his *****
Every woman and her *******
Every ****** and her flower
I will sing them all and their names
And duties of roles pertinent
In healing the world, abode of mankind
From the impish Mr. Hide of cacotopian streak
To pave way for the saintly Dr. Jekyll
To lull man to sleep in his Cinderella
Of social utopia
As Robert Louis Stevenson
Holds the world a stage
Of dystopia.



Thank you for your audience!
Poetic Artiste Aug 2014
A Haiku a day,
Lets curiosity stay,
Humble your musings.
Sometimes I just stop,
I dream of those frostbite eyes,
And sigh a deep sigh.

It went by in blinks,
You were there, here, and then gone,
Just like that I lost.

I dreamt of your face,
Your raven hair, your snow skin,
Dreamcatcher broken.

Drowned my ears with words,
My paper with fragile strokes,
And my eyes with loss.

Your laugh was rapture,
A world away from this earth,
Comfort in the clouds.

Your arm is bloodless,
Your smile is showing and bright,
For this, I’m content.

‘I miss you’ is weak,
I feel much more than just that,
I starve for your warmth.

Love’s progressive chords,
A curve in the beat, ******,
All advance halted.

Your name is beauty,
‘Katriana’ my tongue sings,
Your face to match name.

-March 2013

— The End —