7 Haiku Poems: Ghouls From Pluto

A glorious collection of Halloween Haiku’s by Poet Rummager and Megaeggz

Poet Rummager

Photo found by –FlyTrapMan–

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Ghouls from dark Pluto
Here to rob me of my treats
Little bastard thieves

I‘d knocked for hours
My knuckles bleeding and cracked
No one steals my stash

I clutch my candies
Dig my feet into the ground
Beasts drool and surround

Kit Kat hisses loud
Rips out of the bag and howls
Ghouls emit scared sounds

Blades reflect moonlight
3 Musketeers brandish swords
Let’s slice up this horde

Ghouls shriek, Let’s retreat
No clawing or slicing please
Earth’s candies aren’t sweet!

Almond Joy bar grins
As Ghouls beam back to Pluto
Happy Halloween!

Haiku poems by Megaeggz and Poet Rummager.

Silly illustrations by Poet Rummager.

Click HERE to visit Josh at Megaeggz!

Click HERE to visit –FlyTrapMan–

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Cheesecake And A Hungry Magpie

I’m out walking with Monty

We’re at the Moorabool Valley Cafe

A rural atmosphere, a relaxing place for me

Lunchtime, coffee and cake

Yes, a tasty sweet berry cheesecake

We’re sitting at an outdoor table

A shady tree-lined patio area

Then suddenly, a magpie lands

He’s a cheeky and hungry bird

And a food thief, if you’re not watching

Monty the guard-dog, just sits there

Watching, not a warning bark to be heard.

 

Time for us to walk back home

The Cafe is part of a horse agistment farm

We’re strolling past horse paddocks

Monty is fascinated by a nearby horse

He tugs me over , to have a closer look

At close quarters, both stand and stare at each other

I suppose Monty thinks the horse is a big dog

And the horse thinks Monty is a small pony

Wouldn’t the world be a beautiful place

Beholding others at face value, without prejudice

Above Photos: The Cafe, outdoor patio area, and the magpie in centre photo.

Above Photos: Monty and the horse.

Above Photos: The berry cheesecake, a piece of strawberry chocolate I bought at the Cafe, and the hungry magpie

 

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

 

 

Monty, The White Knight

I’m Doggie minding again. This time I’m looking after the gorgeous Monty, for friends Martin and Jacqui. He’s a bundle of joy, no trouble and a pleasure to have here.

He’s a White Knight

Sleeps like a log all-night

Silently guarding the house

Quiet as a mouse

Yes ! he’s taken over my bed

Beside me at the bed-head

Listening to Leonard Cohen

As if he’s always known

He has a long waggy tail

With a curly coat, his warm veil

A round friendly face

Eye’s that plead for your embrace

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

A Letter To Hydra

I dreamed of sending a letter to Greece

To Hydra, an island paradise

Where sunshine basks on clearness in the air

Shimmering upon old white villa’s at the water’s edge

Memories flood me, of a poet extraordinaire

A handsome man, leaning on his writing ledge

Composing timeless words

Legends now, we’ve all heard

 

The sound of his golden voice

The strumming of his distinctive guitar music

My heart would pump out tears of joy

My soul would bathe in rhythmic jubilee’s

His lyrics would deeply resonate around me

His messages were poignant, clear to see

Massaging my tortured thoughts, to be true and free

Guiding my arduous life through turbulent seas

 

My mentor

My saviour

A Tower Of Song, in heaven

Since 2016 November Seven

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

Bedroom Fireplace

Thank you to Gina of, Singledust, for introducing me to a Pantun, style of poetry this morning.

Pantun :

In its most basic form the pantun consists of a quatrain which employs an abab rhyme scheme. A pantun is traditionally recited according to a fixed rhythm and as a rule of thumb, in order not to deviate from the rhythm, every line should contain between eight and 12 syllables. “The pantun is a four-lined verse consisting of alternating, roughly rhyming lines. The first and second lines sometimes appear completely disconnected in meaning from the third and fourth, but there is almost invariably a link of some sort. Whether it be a mere association of ideas, or of feeling, expressed through assonance or through the faintest nuance of a thought, it is nearly always traceable” (Sim)

I’m not quite sure whether I’ve written the format correctly, but here is my first Pantun. I think I’m a bit light on in the syllable count.

Featured Image: Above, Jing’an Sculpture Park.

 

Bedroom Fireplace

 

Oh wondrous lounge-room fire-place

Your winter-time sparkling crackle

Glows upon our old desire’s embrace

Reciting words of lust, beyond our burnt shackles

 

Oh wondrous bed-room fire-place

Your winter-time warming flame

Narrates tales of our revere and grace

Flickering words of love, beyond our given time

 

Spark Of The Heart lyrics, Redgum

Album: Frontline

It’s a harsh dry land, breaks your back and scars and gnarls your hands
Now carcasses rot in the sun and dusk silts up the dams
Sacked two men when the postie poked those bluies through the fly screen door
The welfare state dried up ten years before

Its Hobson’s choice, they run this plane flocks melt into bone
You can drove the stock routes for a year and cripple life at home
Still look forward to every day but every days the same
You Wake in a sweat dream of the smell of rain

But a river runs solid runs deep
I work this land it grips me by my feet
Staying until my blood runs cold
Spark of the heart
I’m in soul

My great grandfather pushed his luck beyond the Goutre Line
Now all that’s left are new cloud shears and a gravestone walked with lime
In tribute I still use his Swiss barometer in vain
Lake be damned, the weather hasn’t changed

Fifty miles by river land this pasture fenced and sprayed
Profit margins [chime] and graphed at boardrooms in LA
Absenting landlords meet to match their smiles and fake suntans
In three years they’ll have bleached the soil to sand

But a river runs solid runs deep
I work this land it grips me by my feet
Staying until my blood runs cold
Spark of the heart
I’m in soul

Jocie searches salt bush where rain once ran its course
It’s a shock to see a child of twelve grow old upon a horse
The glory box lies locked with memories silent as the phone
Even in the shadows it’s our home
Government relief just might keep breeding stock alive
The agents jump the cost of feed and the export markets dive
And if it rains I’m still in debt until I’m ninety-eight
Will the last one out please shut the bloody gate

On the news it seems unreal
Floods in Cairns the cities just can’t feel
Survivals a story untold
Spark of the heart
I’m in soul

But a river runs solid runs deep I love this land it grips me by my feet
Staying until my blood runs cold
Spark of the heart
I’m in soul

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

 

 

Sage Bush At Guard Tower Twelve

I’ve been on the run for weeks

Heading towards the Great Wall

From atop this steep hill

My nose tells me, I’m close

And I smell that distinctive sage aroma

Knowing, the sage bush is nearby

At the gateway to guard tower twelve

My old bones shake and shiver

The Mongolians are closing quickly

Spears and arrows aquiver

Fear grips me, and I crawl low

Fingers grasping the granite, block after block

Frightened, I’m too scared to fall

Onto the cold sharp rocks below

I clamber higher, step after step

Finally, there above me

The flowering sage bush

Mauve blooms bowing in the breeze

My chest sighs and heaves

I clear my lungs, and scream

Soon I’ll be free, as I see

Beyond the sage bush at guard tower twelve

The Emperor’s warriors, my reprieve

Saved, I fill the Royal message bag with sage leaves

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

 

A Single Weeping Tree (A Villanelle) – A Poem by Ivor Steven

Great news this morning, my poem “A Single Weeping Tree”(A Villanelle), has been published by Wolff Poetry/A Go-To Literary Journal. A Villanelle is a nineteen-line poem with two rhymes throughout, consisting of five tercets and a quatrain, with the first and third lines of the opening tercet, repeated throughout the poem. Please CLICK on this link below for the complete article.

Source: A Single Weeping Tree (A Villanelle) – A Poem by Ivor Steven

A sincere thank you to Linda Wolff, of Wolff Poetry/A Go-To Literary Journal for accepting and publishing my poem, in her wonderful On-line Magazine.

What’s A Few Men

I’ve been reading Carolyn’s article/post of, doesitevenmatter, about “More Than A Few Good Men”, it is a truly lovely read. Her words inspired me to post this song by an Australian group, Hunters And collectors, called “What’s A Few Men”

Hunters & Collectors Lyrics

“What’s A Few Men?”

The colonel said “these bodies stink wont someone come and drag them away”
we try to clean them up but they mow us down
and the English colonel looks the other way
oh the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak
well I ran for the trench but I had no time to speak
well my heart said yes
but my head said no
when the English colonel said “its time to go”

He said “Whats a few men?”
He said “Whats a few men?”
He said “Whats a few men?”

The colonel’s job is never done
So he declares timeout on Christmas Day
We held the enemy in our arms
and we ploughed each others dead into the clay
well the Lord said death will be no longer
and all of these things will pass away
there will be no sorrow and there will be no pain
and we’ll swap cigarettes on Christmas day

well my heart said yes
but my head said no
when the English colonel said “its time to go”

He said “Whats a few men?”
He said “Whats a few men?”
He said “Whats a few men?”

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

Shichahai Area

Whilst in Beijing we visited the Hutong and Shichahai historic scenic area. Hutong has a double meaning. Originally, a hutong is a type of narrow-alley. In Beijing, hutong alleys are formed by lines of Siheyuan, old Beijing residences, called courtyard or quad houses in English. Thus, hutong also refers to the neighbourhood formed by lines of Siheyuan houses. So Hutong was the place we experienced the old authentic Beijing culture, and the Shichahai Scenic Area is where the old Chinese culture was most featured. It is located in the west of old Beijing and used to be part of the old Grand Canal of the Yuan Dynasty 600 years ago. Willows line the river bank, like a misty green curtain. The lake shore line is packed with people chatting, drinking, shopping and generally relaxing. From here we had a rickshaw ride through the narrow alleys of the old area. We dismounted our rickshaws and walked down even narrower alleys to eventually enter a single doorway that lead into a small private courtyard. This was a typical family home of the area, where the home family entertained us, with the lady of the house playing a 400 year-old Guzheng Chinese Zither. After which we all sat inside to enjoy an excellent traditional home-style Chinese meal(and a few Chinese beers). For me, this being allowed to share an evening in the home of a Chinese family, was one of the highlights of the tour. The house itself was over 500 years old, and I felt very privileged and honoured to be one of the family’s guests.

Above: The scenic Shichahai area of old west Beijing

Above: Part of our rickshaw ride, from the lake past gardens and former ministers residences.

Above: Ivor and Barb, (my travel companion), in a rickshaw, and then in the private courtyard of the Chinese family home, where we were entertained and had a home-cooked Chinese meal.

 

Ivor Steven (c)  2018

Letter to Harper from Halfway to the Horizon

Dear fellow readers, I’m posting this extraordinary poem by Robert Okaji, and I’m sure if you read his wonderful verse, your day shall be enlightened.

O at the Edges

Dear Stephanie: No one connects here, and no matter
how resolutely we trudge forward, ignoring spinal fusions
and attacking hearts, the line skips lightly ahead, mocking us,
I think, in that way only the ineffable may claim. Looking
out, I see a lone wren, clouds filtering the stars, and strands
of barbed wire looped like question marks around cedar
stumps, punctuating the day’s greeting. No answers there,
only more inquiries blanching under the sun. But this
is my febrile landscape, not your lush green headed by
gray. Nothing matters, or, everything’s imperative.
In this gnarled season I can’t tell which, although
the vulture ripping into a squirrel carcass on my
suburban front lawn tells me something ain’t quite
right. Full or empty, the glass is still a glass, despite
my propensity for seeking more, whether cava or beer
or yes, enlightenment. I…

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