Haiku #350


First daffodil wilts;
Locusts big as Luxembourg,
Gulls to fish revert.

The Shaken Tree

Midriff mildew stings
A hair-foot giant flower bee;
Seven counties in her wings,
Nests in embers we foresee.

A female blackbird black won’t give,
We trapped her willow wanderings;
She stole the roads, the pheasants live,
When murders end, so too detectives.

A company of wigeons
Fed seeds beside the streams,
Wreaked havoc on decisions,
Commuting coughs in web-foot dreams.

In the river there lived a spirit,
A translucent Naiad, butter-blue,
Now the water she will not visit,
Her body turned to wood for fuel.

There is no taking from nature
Without nature keeping track;
Wild boars will measure the failure
When they bring the forests back.


The title is taken from a Chinese expression, “to shake the tree and feel the wasp sting”, written as:


I’ll know a feeling fairly blessed
When Titmus Tom is in the nest,
The shelter’s straw and mossy floor
Hanging from the potting shed.
Blue heads make for Blue Tits, see,
If black and white the Great Tits be,
That is the way and this is the key.
Coal Tits rest in conifers,
Crested Tits you’ll self-refer,
I did not meet with Jennifer.
Willow Tits are on the turn,
Their black bibs from the ings
Which burnt, back when vassals suffered.
Marsh Tits make for memories good
When baked within the season’s pud.
Their genera are the following three:
Parus from Latin for titular breeds,
For birds in blue say Cyanistes,
Poecile stems from Ancient Greek;
Within a willow I found four, then three.
Vibrant migrants flown for now,
A pigeon with an ankle sprained
Is all the lonely lawn contains,
And on the floor, a dressing gown.


This short lifelong, stayed terrified,
I skimmed my teeth and lost my mind;
The terror created by those outside,
But now I know there’s peace to find.

Leaders atop should pour kind profit,
And better times for people,
Yet my dictators dressed as prophets
And had the strong made feeble.

Those demons dressed as every-day folk,
Surveyed from a yellow soffit;
It’s the innocent who suffer most
On the road from Vectis to Moffat.

Through cataracts of oil they broke,
Dissolving bells in the spire;
Meadows choked, a flame awoke,
And set the forests on fire.

I looked at women in cages kept
By men who beat them for wages;
My eloquence lost to the internet,
Overdosed, I slept through the ages.

Protestors drove to the city,
Berating grey expansions,
When its placards versus tyranny
Suppressors sing in their mansions.

Next they stole my language,
Words once sweet as clover;
My father murdered at Sandwich,
Through Hastings dragged, and Dover.

My kidnapped son, he’d be handsome,
But I’ve not seen him for years;
Monthy I still pay the ransom,
And forget the feeling of tears.

The demons would turn those souls with tongs
Into rolls of garlicked black-pudding,
But should still a seed dispenser bring bird-songs,
I will burst out from my hooding.




Haiku #302 – #306


Death’s not living’s end,
Rain’s not water’s final act;
But moments, fleeting.


I read your words and
A new sunflower grew. Rooks
And magpies argue.


Exasperating goddess;
Have my ink, while I would sleep.
Meteorites flung.


Have me cremated,
Ashes sprung where no one owns;
Meditate instead.


My soul extracted,
Mined, shaped into a bullet;
Aimed at love’s steel heart.