Who’s
In that tiny cabin
Orchestrating that sprawl
Of spindly legs?
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Red
The story came to an abrupt end.
It was like slamming on the brakes when
the lights suddenly turn red.
Swaddled
look at these sextuplets:
snug in their woollen sleeping
bags, trusting, waiting
Haiku-ing
cows like mooing. trains
choo-chooing; canoeists canoeing.
I like haiku-ing
Tourette’s
The stutter of rain,
The twitching of lightning, the
Blasphemous boom
Of thunder, that light
In the hall-way flickering
On/off/on
Artistry of Rust
I love these ancient rustic roofs
In which settlers put their trust
Streaked by nature’s weathered hands
The patient artistry of rust.
Whip
My daughter phones
from the beach. What’s that? I say.
Wind whips her words away
