Unassuming Haiku Musings
Bournemouth Beach
Old Bournemouth beach lands, down pier and chine to the sands. Bright on Dorset strands.
Department
Seventeen syllables, give or take a grievance. Small observations pressed flat and dried — the red pen mid-bleed, the morning mid-thought, the indignity mid-stir. The form is ancient and the complaints are modern, which seems a fair trade. House rule: say the little thing exactly, count the syllables loosely, and end before the feeling overstays.
Old Bournemouth beach lands, down pier and chine to the sands. Bright on Dorset strands.
Razumov’s watch stopped— he felt ready to swoon; then this time it was done.
Snap, you dragon, snap— clap your talons together and let those claws crack.
I was enraged when I learned that writers of rage earned a higher wage.