Haiku Fridays are here to stay... apparently.
Fridays are rubbish,
So much expectation,
Just disappointment.
This is such a crap idea.
Friday 24 September 2010
Saturday 18 September 2010
I know it's not Friday
A friend of mine declared this Friday the 17th of September in the grim year of our lord 2010 to be the first Haiku Friday. So it shall be, she brought this horror on the world.
As is fitting and just the first is about her. Out of context it is a certain shade of crap, please remember I am but a pawn in these twisted games.
Lucy is loco,
She redefines renegade,
She's Lucy Cannon.
Wait, why did I do this?
As is fitting and just the first is about her. Out of context it is a certain shade of crap, please remember I am but a pawn in these twisted games.
Lucy is loco,
She redefines renegade,
She's Lucy Cannon.
Wait, why did I do this?
Saturday 4 September 2010
Wise, Good, Wild, Grave.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
This was obviously written by Dylan Thomas and not me. It is one of the many reasons that I choose to stay alive.
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