Hocus-Pocus Habeas Corpus

You owed it to yourself 
But nothing yet of note 
To warrant a poem today— 

Like Bulldog Drummond hot 
On the trail, time to back- 
Track to where you lost 

The right to have writ 
Something whose smell won’t 
Soon go away. 

1960s West Coast Underground Haiku Poets Society

Real people writing 
Real poetry, you know that’s 

Uh, like man, surreal. 

Haiku Health Daily

Kong the Master say 
Me like haiku better than 
Damn flu any day. 

Dandy Exit

That drab 

Coat hanging on 
The clotheshorse 

Has been hanging there 
A long time; one would think 

It’s high time someone 
Put it out 

To pasture, along
With the blasted 

Kitchen sink. 

To A Once Budding Romantic Poet Now Out On A Limb

Do not be crestfallen, 
Bard, a mere leaf trembling 
In a mean autumn wind— 
Brief as your flowering was, 
Surely you bloomed long 
Enough to sense it wasn’t 
Meant to be forever spring.