Ghastly Haiku

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attic space

the attic space
is a crawling space

with spider nest homes
and house fly homes

there are empty boxes
filled up boxes

of odds and ends
that never end

some carpet pieces
lost jigsaw pieces

kids toys for the next
generations

keepsakes from the past
generations

why am I here?
well that’s not so clear

I see the time has flown
the bulb has blown

now I’m all alone
yes I’m all alone

in this dark debris
of  memories

Aunt Mable’s Table

every last staple
in my tiny stapler
appears always
to be unstable
and drops on the table
that was given me
by my late Aunt Mable
who abhorred waste
and I fear is now
turning in her grave
at the thought of
all these wasted staples
on her old table
where there’s not mushroom
for old dad jokes
and stationary veg

 

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Wood for the Trees

life can become overwhelming
for no obvious rhyme or reason
purpose and definition go astray

with no direction to call home
you lose yourself amongst wolves
and stray into darkened corners

but there are hands reaching out
and voices with reassuring words
waiting for your reappearance

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dictum tweet

on the top of tall trees strutted the bird
with a song and name long since heard
for man had ceased to roam this world
his forgotten words in leaves unstirred
when from its throat the bird unfurled
a dictum tweet  unleashed  and  hurled
I AM THE ONE, THE TRUE, HOLY BIRD!

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into the arterial flow

into the arterial flow
we inject ourselves daily

a travels to b’s zone
and b travels to a’s

conduits become congested
coughing and spluttering

we swap our places
me to you to you to me

and is it any wonder
productivity suffers

when we are all on the move
never settled in body or spirit

imagine if you will
a world devoid of hurly-burly

where sunny spells string together
and rain showers meet at midnight

think of the laundry we could dry
like prayer flags flying on mountains

or coloured kites in the sky flying
now wouldn’t that be nice

for a change.

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https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/gingerly/

 

 

panacea

he carried with him a mirror ball
and within each of its tiny squares
a reflection of a different facet of his life appeared

the sun would shine and project on walls and
passing buses to the amusement of passengers
him as a child with blonde sun kissed hair

or the here and now in kaleidoscopic colours
the things he loved to watch and cherish
like birds flying with words on silent wings

with occasional glimpses into the future
silver grey with bent back and walking frame
the hand of a loved one held in his own

but this was no magic prediction machine
no seer of visions or healer of hidden ills
no, this was his heart and soul for all to see

laid bare and released without copyright
in a multitude of moving moments to spin
and sparkle and help set the people free

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/panacea/