Holiday Haiku part I.

Sticky heat
feel the cicadas song
a bell birds call.


Fresh cut grass
petrol runs dry
summer smell.


nocturnal gathering
scratches climb walls
insects.

The Pen and The Pencil.

The table lies in disarray,
silence clings to the unruly mess.

The pencil whispers to the pen,
"I can't live under this amount of stress,"

"I remember when I was creative,
when every curve meant so much."

"Now I drag on with on feeling,
falling hopelessly out of touch."

"You're lucky my silent friend,
sometimes I wish I could run dry."

To this, and ever after,
the pen offered no reply.

Distraction Food.

A chip sandwich
requires very little hunting or gathering.

This simple comfort
offers enough distraction
to complete another chapter.

Study.

Two more paragraphs,
becomes three more pages.

I'd like to say they float on by,
but they stretch forward
like a highway of broken glass.

Sleep is like a service station
that won't sell me any shoes.

Finals.

The leaves shimmer
as the car park grips me like a vice.
Never have I been so cold,
this isn't why I'm numb.