Friday, April 29, 2016

Is This What They Call Haiku

The philosophical meanderings of an aging redneck poet.

Is This What They Call Haiku

If the whiskey doesn't kill me
and my git-tar stays in tune
I can make it through
another wasted night.
To anyone but the curious
posing a question
is sometimes more difficult
than trying to find an answer.
A poor boys dream
is to be rich
get chicks
and drive fast cars.
The good old days
like living in a dream
are merely selective memories
spoken fondly of in the present.
Somewhere in transition
there's a free and easy child
with an untamed spirit
running naked to the bone.
Though lost to carnal greed
and sugar coated orgasms
they might be ingenues
in a kinder gentler time.
As darkness falls
an empty silence gives way
to the haunting cries
of endless sorrow.
A newborn infant child
a nobody yet
but soon in touch with dreams
and bound to run.
Where would sunshine be
without the weight
of coming darkness
resting on its shoulders.
In the seasons
of my time
I have known despair
and a tortured soul or two.
I've had many lovin' sweeties
and trophies on my arm
but yet it seems
none would be for long.

Poetry by David L Wright

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