Haiku #479 – #481

479.

Might we stop again,
A month, like-minded constructs,
And let Nature heal.

480.

And when I return,
Could I please learn not to rush
Towards my own death.

481.

I see these products,
100% home grown!
I see xenophobes.

Eton Mess

They made a pudding, gave it a name,
Now two repasts are never the same;
No table-head, no Toby Jugs,
No morning kiss, nor goodnight hugs.

Hunting meringues, cold sugar-coated,
Furs of fox, wick-weasel throated.
Institutions in the wolds
Poured strawberries on the whipping folds.

A kitchen cabinet’s full of mugs,
The mugs have mugshots made of thugs,
They bore a mace, wore ermine gowns,
And pasted slogans through the towns.

Ah, they’re cheering cracks of willow paddle!
But underneath the leather saddle
There’s neither lion, nor horse from shire,
But running creases, Truth’s for hire.

It’s butter churned at Corpus Christi,
Though source of Sophistries are misty;
I’d rather pen-portay some anarchy,
Than this Middle England’s apathy

To anaphylactic taxing of our sense,
We’re told its better for defence
Of national interests long since sold;
They’ve got the cure for common cold.

The Bear And The Clown

A bear broke out of the forest’s cage
And ambled down to the village;
He snuffled for truffles behind the café,
And sneaked between orchards unnoticed.
He ate the flowers on the graves
And rolled on his back in the meadows,
Then lolloped into the small village school
And rumaged around in the cupboards.
With his great brown snout he singled out
A costume in blues and bright yellows,
Draped on his frame he adjourned
As a circus-founding fellow.
‘Look at the clown!’ the villagers clapped,
Gathered around the bold creature;
How he danced and bellowed and crashed,
Tricked, tapped, turned over for tickles.
‘This must be what life is like in the capital’
Someone cheered, ‘Where reside talents and
Craftsmen, there are parties and all
The riverside paths are pleasant, for walks
On a Monday afternoon with your lover’.
But unbeknown to each other
The clown was a bear under cover
Of grotesque red shoes and a nose
Which squeaked if you squeezed it,
And one child squeezed it, ah the mirth
Ended instantly as the bear’s maw drooling
Snatched the poor child and absconded
At pace back into the forest, before the
Villagers could believe what there own eyes
Had seen, there on the village green,
For you see, a bear is always a bear,
With only thoughts of fish for the famished,
No matter if dressed as a clown or a man
And into a forest banished.

Haiku #407 – #410

407.

Irony governed me;
When I knew too late I lived,
Instead I found this.

408.

Poetry unites
With struggles for the best form,
Struggles bear poems

409.

Like fruit found hanging
Could not conceive to explore
What was not before.

410.

The messenger knocks
Three times, steps back with parcels,
Postworkers new gods.

Haiku #390 – #393

390.

Drizzle days, this cage
Is rusty, of aged metal.
Make me next petalled.

391.

Duck dreams in stomachs;
We could have built such systems
For love, and kindness.

392.

But we built instead
Blind slaughterhouses.
I’ll sit beneath blooms

393.

Of cherry blossom;
You are never forgotten,
Merely different.