Seagulls
winged scavengers
cleaning coastal waters
loud, extremely quarrelsome birds
scroungers.
The Door Wolf.
And, what of the waxing Moons
Its flood, of relentless tides, that time
of scar faced pit dogs, long sharp toothed,
their belly grumbling handlers, eager
to chalk a death line, on cold ale stained flag stones hard.
While in bleakness yard, belly tumbling hags squeeze, last drops out of well gripped ****, for the blind pups bellies,
babies must wait, in so many ways they are a benefit, against the door Wolf.
And what of pale, deep eyed children
Barefoot in waste lands of snow
Thin as cotton threads, as are their ragged clothes !
Their belly grumbling quenched, by easy swallowed earth worms, to placate the parasitic worms hidden within.
Ahh, all in ! to the avoid the door wolf.
And what of the well heeled lace lover,
hovering in trinkets of silver, and cups spilling with distain, against the scroungers pain ?
With, Parisiene perfume, to muffle the drum
Hum drum stench, from a piss trench
soaked and brandyied to sleep.
Her blinkers finaly, blinked blank.
Those waxed, and wained Moons !
Now cobwebbed in long past night skies.
Icebergs melt bears
Poles exhaust pelted creatures
Fur absorbs descent
Foreigners the lot
Bloody migrants escape floes
Pillar grown from salt
Homeless Exodus
Into uncharted rescue
No passport needed
Charity misplaced
Food banks in Antarctica
Shoot the messenger
True nature provides
Mammals seek Noah in trust
Close the gates of hell
Survival has fits
Humans on steroids of greed
No doping control
Genocide salutes
Fish bones drown upon the float
Refuge on plastic
Jolly old Darwin
Nurture mutates on the cross
Rejoice its Christmas
Evolution sinks
One more day in paradise
Malcontent scroungers
Holy and wholesome
Habitats change their disguise
Conscience a fig leaf
Suffused by wisdom
Buddha reaches Atlantis
Blows bubbles in vain
08th December 2019
Haikus traditionally do not have titles
Can't post them without on the soup though
The atmosphere rings with the bell like calls
of the plover flock, long before they are spotted.
The flight herringbones a grey fedora sky.
Markings of white and coal black weave,
wing-stitched, a blanket maker’s dream.
Sigh makers they close on the beach
at high tide, the horizon shivers the
sand blanches. These ravishing scavengers
light on the tattered edge of wet to dry,
dawdling with the dead.
Plovers are diminutive scroungers, one-legged
dancers, hopping to the pull of tide, dining on
crab-eggs in black-tie and feathered tails, their
gray skull caps lined with a black brow.
Sparrow-small birds dress to the nines.
A feast for the birds, fall crisps, crab moltings,
go on for endless miles. September is beginning
and soon winged ones will fly to sunny shores.
The cold Atlantic will moan for the loss of music,
the unstitched sky will part. The avian choir is off
to the mud flats of Carolina.
First Published Eunoia Review January 2015
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