Seize the Dame

Lately, I’ve spent too much time idling:
There are three dead hands on the clock
The telephone has turned into a rock
All our coffeeshops have drinker’s block.

I’m leaving now
To see if the sun will come and play.
But you–you should stay.
You’re too preoccupied with ceasing my day.

Title courtesy Kiran Mascarenhas, who says these things.

Tuesday Haiku: Of time travel and helplessness

This week's Tuesday Haiku, in keeping with tried-and-tested irony, is ready on Wednesday.

Comparative Haiku
In a candy store
children do not wait for crumbs
like I do for you

Bright Light Haiku
For Kiran
Disco-lit auto
every evening going home
I seek time travel

Monarch Haiku
A big butterfly
in the pit of my stomach
dying of darkness

Tuesday Haiku

This week's Haiku edition, miraculously on time. Inspired by a haiku non-believer.

BAKING TIPS

Writing haiku is
like baking a cooker cake:
quick, delicious.


DOES DRAMA

How can you complain
about meaningless haiku
when summer has died?

Tuesday Haiku

These are from last week, when I wrote but didn't post. I realise these are not haiku, but senryu. But, you know. Bite me. For the one-and-a-half readers I have on this blog, if you're more active on Twitter, you can follow me and my haiku and my cricket rants @LeftarmSpinster.

CLOSED DOOR
I will spend my life
looking through a window at
your face-melting mouth.

THIEF
I steel myself; you
walk in afternoon light white.
I'd rather steal you.

Tuesday Haiku

Bob Dylan Haiku

Along the watchtower,
minutes changing into hours
is a tall order.

Remembrance Haiku

Early morning hands
try to wake sleeping pillow;
dog is in the grave.

Strange Love Haiku

The blue-grey sky weeps.
He scoffs at my shirt, I stand
under his umbrage.

Tuesday Haiku

Posting Tuesday Haiku on a Friday is totally allowed. Okay?

ONE

When dressed to the gills
in a fancy restaurant,
I can't eat the fish.


TWO

He was a good spy,
till his lovely little bride
stitched him a turncoat.

Batting Practise

Where her shin is blue,
The ball probably kept low—
Such a calculated blow.

On her burning head,
The emphatic gash of a full toss;
An indefinite period of memory loss.

On her neck
And all along her sides,
The blackened blobs of failed cover drives.

He wakes in the morning,
A gentle headache keeping him calm,
He runs his fingers down her screaming arm.

“Sorry, honey, about the batting practise.
Never again. Now give us a peck!"
She tries to turn her neck.

He leaves. Another morning
has thrown up on the bathroom floor.
She smiles, winces, closes the door.

Limps to the kitchen,
Finds her own well-hidden Bottle of Bashes
Blood has no memory; stashes win matches.