Twelve Syllables to Go

Writing haiku poems is a go-to exercise for me for when I’m overwhelmed by stress, or if I just need to get my creative juices flowing. Twelve measly syllables and it’s done. It’s like shooting free throws; there’s something about watching the ball go in a couple of times that’ll make you shoot better for the rest of the game. The following is the result of something that I call Haiku Power Hour: I take two shots of bourbon (or whatever) and write for 60 minutes. They’re terrible more often than not, but NBD, it’s not like other people will see them. Oh wait.
Powerball tickets
litter my coffee table.
False hope is a drug.
Trump has a button.
Kim Jong Un has a button.
Life is weird, sometimes.
My little grey cat
yowls at me all goddamn day.
I don’t even mind.
The Earth is a speck
on the face of existence.
God laughs pretty loud.
They make a weed mint.
They sell them right down the street.
It’s a brave new world.
All our posturing
Isn’t even close to worth
a pair of good boots.
Every night, the train
rattles my tiny bedroom.
Rattles me to sleep.
Let’s drive really slow.
Do you have somewhere to be?
Yeah, neither do I.
Witch hazel fills me.
The smell reminds me of her
and means that she’s home.
Fools will be suffered.
It is part of who we are.
It eats us alive.
Big Daddy Biff is
a good name for a mayor.
We all need more dads.
By Jay Sharpe