by David Roderick


These haiku are not 5-7-5 syllables

Sudoku brain,
Is my migraine.
A dove a dragon has slain.

God's telephone,
Is the dog's bone.
Alone I shall pine for home.

Like the sun,
This son of York, the day has won.

This is the winter,
Of our discontent.
The prongs of the fork on the ward are bent.

Earl Grey.
Bicycle day.
Pedals to make hay.

A spectacle sight.
Well might.
Find the building site,
And go white with fright.

Sushi bar.
Like our star.
Eating hamsters will go far.

Sunflowers grace,
These days, and pace,
Their allure from here to Thrace.

NHS is egress,
To digest the intake,
Without reciprocation.

These dice are mice,
Nor men to fleece,
That is golden. So says Jason.

Creativity is what I'm creating,
Ever deliberating, not debating.

Freeze dried coffee grains,
Can evanesce without blame.
It can percolate incessantly.

These haiku are 5-7-5 syllables.

A day in the prose,
Alone I've chosen to close,
The coffin: my repose.

My sunflowers grow,
Through the summer season: which,
Ebbs and flows, like time.

Childish people spit,
Like idiotic smokers,
Craving nicotine.

A cough or a cold,
Spreads across the hospital.
The cleaners spread it.

A farmer spreads muck,
Called manure. It puts nitrates,
Into the tillage.

A village squire knows,
The local vicar, whose church,
Graces the green fields.

A plateau whispers,
Its karst topography like,
Geological eons.