Haiku: Modest Real Estate Investment Gone To Pot

 

Tilted mini hand- 

Powered tiller rusting in 

Weed-infested lot. 

 

 

 

 

 

Απελπισία Ενός Μετρίου Μετρημένου Στοχαστή

 

Από τον κόσμο το ζαβό, 

Μπήκα σε πυθάρι να σωθώ, 

 

Μα γαμώ την γκλάβα μου γαμώ, 

Δεν βγήκα Διγενής θαρρώ. . . . . .

 

Taking Stock Of Your Latest Knockout Poem

 

Once you think 

You have it 

 

Down pat, another audit 

Of its particulars 

 

Finds you don’t 

Recall where it came from, 

 

Nor where you’re at. 

 

 

 

 

Moot: Dead To The Word?

If it’s true, why

 

Are we no longer still 

Stuck in the stillborn stage, 

 

Our eyes wide open, 

Dumbstruck 

 

Before the unfolding bitter- 

Sweet wondrous drama 

 

Of the only world 

We can call 

 

Our own? 

 

 

 

Henry Teel's Punt In A Nutshell

At rest on a sand dune safely 

Above the tide, its prow pointing 

Towards some lanky gesturing 

Grasses slowly moving in 

To encircle it, this weathered 

 

Light blue-grey punt going 

To pieces was once pulled 

Here by a man who soon went 

To the mainland and died there,

But still remains--an apostrophe.