|Kerouac n' cat|
I just keep a little book in my back pocket and write them whenever. I did them with the Kerouacian ideal in mind that 'write in recollection and amazement FOR YOURSELF' however i'll publish a couple here anyway 'cus they're fun little ditties.
cherub smiling cat,
sleeps tight under arm
and i write haikus.
detail the fur of the cat
on a winters eve
Hayfields on the horizon - remind
of giddy summer playgrounds
in golden spring youth
Holy smokin fire
puffs its rings to the night
and says 'how do?'
curtails spiritual practice
today & tomorrow
If sight is only reflectionsWhen I refer to waves I mean particle waves, e.g sound waves.
and waves are all but vibrations
then where is the source which winds them?
what I like about this one is it sorta follows a trajectory, step stonin' the reader to 'the source'.
This last one got me thinking about the source.. how we can't see it. I've long thought upon how human's trying to comprehend our creation is much like a dog trying to grasp how human's talk.. or where a can of coke comes from.. it's above them, outta reach, incomprehensible.
So perhaps an analogy for the source, using the above haiku as reference..:
NOTE - 1,2 & 3 refers to line number
Rain falls down on a mountain. (3)
it trickles down, curving and caressing a path for itself, collecting into a river. (2) The river bends itself along the land, until it reaches the sea.
the sea is unable to turn inland. It cannot swim upstream, but only struggle on the shore. (1)
So you see how the sea can't swim upstream, it can look inland - but it can't reach far. It certainly can't reach its source by its own will. Then how does it reach its source? By simply going through the motions - where it finds itself raised to the clouds.
I hope that makes some sorta sense. I think i'll explore this idea more, in different creative avenues. Perhaps it'd be explainable in song.
Anywho, some more, follwing the theme loosely:
Rainfall & waves for millenia
carved a david of this land
& the granite of our bones recalls us.
murmer in echo
of the faraway heart
(this ain't a haiku but on the same wave length)
& like a kite morality stems
from the hand of atavism
in the winds of willful existence.
from brain to brain
through ear eye & hand.
with washed away lives
stories told to the stones & dirt.
cold & distant
his face hangs like the moon
bright & weary, motionless
(about a wreck-head friend of mine..)
He reads his woes in the sunday papers,
the cats not out the bag;
children count the ladybugs.
Innocence lost from adolescent eye's
ten years too late
redemption will come
Sisyphusal bee sting!
the forever thorn in one's mind
that rues you from being
go write some of yr own!
What I enjoy most about haiku is its immediate art - art that rivals the click of the camera for its immediacy, and therefore, encapsulated spontinaity.