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Poems

Short Haiku Poems

Drips of Ice

Drips of ice, falling on the ground; whirling in the squealing wind:
They create a strange mountain that soon fades away;
A flashing river of flux, carrying away everything in its path.
The piquant snowflakes are everywhere;
they are there for man’s admiration and for his honor to God.

Snowflakes’ Picturesque Beauty

Snowflakes, whistling in the wind and washed away in the whirl;
Oh snowflakes, like a royal garment that coats the trees’ leaves:
They look like a glorious bouquet of white flowers, fluttering in the air.
Their hooks latch on to the leaves like woolen blankets and colorful beanies:
They imprison the shivering lady of beauty inside in a cave of ice.

An Old Friend

An old friend, as pretty as a star, drifted back into my world:
Her eyes; filled with tears; is a charming, intriguing poem—
A poem, regretting the false steps of the past that can never be corrected.
Oh, the screaming moments of false, forbidden love; lost in the chasm of the past,

Those dolorours, remorseful moments that never should have happened;
But though they are like buckets of water, dashed away, it’s good to see you again anyway. At least, the flower of thy breast is exclusive now, and disloyalty’s stain has faded. You’ve drunken the poison of unfaithfulness and have returned to life again. Oh, dear lady, fold thy body’s flaps together: Release them only to me again.

An old friend, lost in a stream of worries—worries about this, and that, and the other. Oh, life’s strange moments that divide friends and dry up love’s golden kisses: Somehow or other; lost people, in the fog of silly moments; lose everything.
But alas, time and age often bring reason that wake them up and call them back home; and alas, there is no place like home—and there will never be.

The World and its Painful Sorrows

The world, walking away from itself, is lost in a fog of Confusion; its loud screams howl for help to staunch the spurt of pain that won’t seem to go away. Oh, the world and its endless troubles; who will give him a helping hand today—or tomorrow?
A long line of trees, away in the distance, mirrors the charm and beauty of a woman.
See the scampering trees, guiding the avenue and waving their hands in the wind;
See how they run, like Kangaroos, skirting the edge of the road and directing traffic as they race along the pungent avenue, stuffed with racing chariots along the way.
Skipping over the furrows, they bend and bow in the wind, dancing as they go along.

Time’s Oldest Trick

A charming girl, time’s oldest trick; She’s as pretty as a falling star,
And as rugged as a mountain. Her eyes are as bright as a solar flare and long as a luminous lake: She’s quite a girl that catches the eyes of wandering married men.
Who has not fallen for the illusion of a beautiful girl whom every stud wants to taste;
And that is the problem when every bud wants to lick the dew on the grass.
Oh, beautiful girl, time’s oldest trick, has made a fool of the brawniest of giants;
Many have been cut down like trees in a storm and sent to the dark place so early.

A Falling Star

A shooting star, quarreling in the heavens;Its flaming beauty spatters the night with Splendor. Oh, the cavernous cave of night, as large as the world itself, is a mystery:
It is a world of wonder and the dark glory of another world where nothing is right.
Oh, the giant cave of night; forever lost in the darkness, is a strange falling star.
Night, in all of its blackness and mysterious splendor, is a star that was not meant to Shine. Oh, rayless lamp of night, plucked from the glory of the gods and is so alone.
The falling star of night, dropped from a million light years away, is a quaint spectacle; And when it fell, it exploded like a bomb and burned the entire city down to the ground.Oh, the mischief of night and its many strange comrades and friends who run around in the dark and wear the mask of darkness’ disguise.

The Uncharming End of the World

The end of all things, so mythical, isa picturesque candle in the night; oh, the dramatic change of things in the world is a flaming ball of fire and a flickering candle burning in the night. Who had ever believed that things would have gotten to this?
Doomful rockets; blazing in the dark, eerie sanctuary of night’s gloom; slam into the homes of the innocent ones; they scream into the night’s bowels; no one responds.
See how it flames like tongues of fire, lunging before the wild eyes of fear.

Behold the children of the night; they ardently await the next trip to the Throne; They’ve moved from life and darkness to lifelessness and greater darkness; but that Is only their first round, down into the chasm of doom: Another trip is rapidly Approaching, a trip that questions their way of life in the previous world.
Who will pass the test and find solace beneath the Great White Throne Judgment?
Oh, love, an old man now, has lost his way in the storm: The mist is thick and raw;
Who’ll find him again and restore the joy that he once had? The time on earth is Over: The light of the sun and has come and gone; alas, the boiling lake of flames is As wide as the world; the fire is everywhere, and it is hotter than hell’s.

The World: A Roaring, Restless Sea of Stir

Oh, see the world’s wonderful people; they are as happy as a lark: Obsessed with love and its juicy drunk; they can’t wait to quench their thirst by quaffing the dainty drink of love. Now, they’ve around and have seen how the trolley of life works; somehow or other, though, life is not as pretty as they once thought it was; The womb of love has been filled with its golden sap that once tasted so delicious.
She’d just begun to know when she’d been unceremoniously by the wicked ones:
Her womb, overflowing with the sap of love, gushed over with the dainty juice.

But all that has changed now. Love, to many, is like a strange dose of poison:
Cecilia was pregnant the other day, and the gods blessed her with nine babies at one blow; and Her friend Ernestine was cursed with seven from her first romantic fling in the bowels of night. Oh, poor Ernestine; what a piteous plight that befell this damsel on that roaring restless sea of stir! The world, that raging, restless sea of whir; it seems to have so many wonderful things, but they are all exclusively owned. And you stand there and wonder why the blessings come like that:
A poor girl, just entering college, is greeted with such a plight of fertility.

The girl Merle, across town, was pregnant before, and she only had one baby;
But Cecilia, whose mother works two jobs to raise her eleven children, had nine babies at one blow. Oh, the world, a roaring, raging sea of turmoil; spinning out of control. Cecelia, Cecelia; a girl who would never make love
she told her friend that she would never drink the bitter-sweet sap of love again.
Oh, see the world; a restless, roaring, raging sea of turmoil; is as wild as a beast:
Blustery faces, like wispy clouds, roll across the sky; and as they go, they vomit fire.
Oh, the Eyes that peer from those unheartsome faces are filled with tears; those eyes…yea, those eyes, they spout cinereous tears like a queenly fountains and frantic geysers;brushing the dark, murky world around them with the paint of silver and ash. Who will help the girls tonight—their fifteen babies are screaming in the night.

The golden bride, exquisitely upholstered in the chic apparel of pomp and bloom,
Is bedashed in a splendorous bouquet of charming glances and beaming smiles.
Her cheeks and smiles; as pretty as beautiful, ripe summer fruits;
Are brushed with the paint of a kiss from the lips of a rose, spattered with the dew of dawn. And yes, her charming lips are brushed with paint of the mam; yea, the thirst of the star standing there. With his arms wide open.
So sure of himself that the girl is waiting—she’s thirsty and craves a drink of his kiss. She’s been standing there for two hours now, ardently awaiting last night’s explanation: She wants to know who the girl was, who winked at him in the jade tam. She was worried, and thus endured the thirst for the taste of his tongue.

Daylight’s Faming Kites

Daylight’s colorful kites are everywhere; like golden stars, flickering in the night:
They fill the charming museum of outdoor life with fiery sparks that scintillate from their tiny wings. Strings, scraps, and leaves; floating in the air; are daylight’s strange automobiles and aircrafts being whirled and rushed all over the world.
They are daylights piquantly arresting kites that fill the world with wonder.

The Wispy, Blustery Night in Paris

The night was wispy and blustery, yet vanity’s slaves and willing workers were out And about. They hard-working merchants of sleaze; selling strange, mysterious meat. Oh, the healthy strapping ladies; as strong as Odysseus, and as brave as Hercules; stayed on the beat practically all night, looking to catch the married one.
But they were the unfortunate ones; the wiser ones worked from home or from pricey hotel suites. Awash in cash, they are every man’s darling, but they don’t mind.
Just as the day dawned again, and another round of daylight was wheeled into existence. Waving placards and handing out invitation cards to the weak ones,
They kept their world as busy as a bee with the engine of their enthusiasm.

Lost in the froth of the fog and pushed by the engine of need, many remain busy;
They’ve been busy all their lives—many have been doing it for more than fifty years!
Oh, these busy inexorable women, they’ve on the beat for practically all their lives:
Who will give them a hand and point the way of truth? Who will call the police and send them on the beat? But even the police understand and work with these hard gals. Oh the diligent women who find themselves in the strange dance house of the nigh;Working under the colorful flame of an open umbrella, they stay on the beat.
Many, in the glorious city of Paris, embrace the picturesque flame of an open umbrella in the woods; others work under strange hymn of a tree as its leaves are washed by the whistling nose of the wind. Oh, the charming hymn of the wind, against the leaves, that rustle in the strange whistling whir of the night. Its notes, loudly heard in the wind’s whirl and in the passionful groan on the ground beneath the strange lovers, are quite a hymn indeed. Oh, the forest of bois de boulogne!

The Old Lady Now

She’s an old lady now; she looks at you, and the wrinkles are everywhere.
But oh, what a hardy worker she has been. She’s an industrious woman,
Still taking care of her children; her waist as loose as a tree in the wind,
Yet she’s still at it; doing all that she only knows how.
And having been at it for that long, she’s made it with all those on the beat;
She’s even captured a couple empathetic hearts that come around, here and there.
Washed and scoured in the wind, the line bounces up and down;
The flaming garment tossed, about the strings,
Are carried up and down in the wind. And then, the svelte maid
Removes the clips and the beautiful kites that fluttered in the wind.

Oh, see the golden lady—as pretty as a solar flare and as charming Elizabeth Taylor;
She’s been out all day, and her cheeks are folded up like clothes.
Which face is she showing to the man of the house, her legitimate lover?
As she grows older and older and wipes the shame away from her face,
the harder she seems to work and the more shameless she becomes.
Oh, the viscous paint of shame in the spinning whirl of an overworked waist;
What will she tell the man of the house tonight, whose sawed-off weapon has already been prepared—prepared for the estranged wife of his youth who has gone astray?

Tipped by a friend about the ugly noise heard from that window over there, the man of the house is angry, but he keeps a smiling face as he greets her on her long-awaited arrival. Who will correct his hideous plans tonight? —will he listen to reason’s voice or will he plunge in the swift-flowing river of wrath that would send to the darkened cell for the rest of his life? Is the mere meat of a whore worth paying such a price?
Who will be the referee tonight at this picturesque house of wrath and anger?
Will reason go over there tonight, or will the sordid woman’s conscience speak—Has she had a working relationship with her conscience? Has she been listening to it? Who will referee this strange match of bravado and this lost woman in the fog?

Where was the man of the house? He pretended to have gone away on a long journey; He’d been tip by an angry tipster who had tired noticing the wrong done to this man.
Two blocks away from his home, his wifely pearl has been seen fraternizing with this fellow. His teeth, as white as snow and his eyes as long as streaks across the sky.
She bats her eyes at him, and he winks back and nodded his head in the direction of that window over there. Wet, way at the bottom, she could not wait for another spanking, smack in the middle of the night. The good man of the house walked away;
He left this morning without warning, but it is merely a mirage.

The feller’s wife put him up to the act and created a space under the cot;
She tipped him about his wife’s dirty, low-down behavior and he shook his head.
Oh, that picturesque cottage where all the dirty work went down: Oinnette had had enough; she had had enough of her two-timing, insulting husband who’d made a fool of her.She called the beautiful star’s swain and set him up to the act; thus, pretending to be leaving on a distant journey and would not be back for two weeks, he stepped out the house and ambled away on his supposed journey. But it was all an
illusion. Monsieur Pepin was not going anywhere but under the bed on which his flame would misbehave that night—the very wife of his youth. And lo and behold;
At the precise hour the sparks flew, the embers began all over the room as the fellow of the house unpacked his stuff and his golden bird began to groan and grumble.
And like an airplane, crashing in the night, he lifted up the cot with his bare hand and began a war in that room of fire; and oh, the mess that was left behind.
She never cheated on another man again, and he never dishonored her again.

An Old Familiar Road

An old familiar road, as wide as the heavens and as smooth as ice;
It is filled with pretty lights—people drinking and dancing in the streets.
What a mystical place: It contains people and music from everywhere.
Who would use another route—or is there another but this mystic place?
Why is it so throttled with the world’s teaming masses—
And where are they going? Will there be any room for the ones who are coming?
The people at that house over there have been drinking and partying all night:
Those down the streets have been boozing it up; they do drugs and hold orgies there every night. Women, as pretty as a fluttering comet, alight from limousines that pull up, disembowel their contents, and pull off again into the fog of night.
Not far away, by that house at the side of the road over there; they gamble there all day and grumble, moan and groan all night long. My, what a time they are having.
These are the people on life’s broad, mysterious road that is so easy to follow.Everyone is going somewhere, but nobody quite knows where and what that is

Sex, an old friend of man, and a sneaky enemy
That stole your marriage and flew away in the wind.
Sex, an old troublemaker
it turned your wiry waist into a cup of tears.