As the second hand slips
When you’re coming to grips
In a thrilling ecstatic last gasp,
The spasms are treasured,
The nerve-endings pleasured—
An easy, yet hard thing to grasp.

If only the wife
Could surpass this in life;
Transcending mere conjugal motion:
This private emergency;
Slippery urgency,
Panting in private devotion.

On the hot stroke of one
It’s a second to none
Passing minutes on high alert.
When all prudery ceases,
The tension releases:
Alone, as you ready to—

PROMPT #22:

write a poem about something you’ve done that gave you a kind of satisfaction,
and perhaps still does.

Just cause I wrote it
doesn’t make it haiku, or
even readable.

Poetry is dead.
Poetry rots in its tomb.
Poetry rises.

Sufis and Taoists
meditating while they’re drunk
contemplating . . . wine.

Zen haiku trashcan:
paused to throw out an image
and kill the Buddha.

I alone, a god
raise high the bleeding trophy:
Haiku’s severed head.

In the pale moonlight,
old pine leans over water
and it’s all Trump’s fault.

Basho-san, master,
the frog has leapt long ago
it was green as Kek.

www.badhaiku.com

That Japanese thing about ants:
Yoko Ono (but worse) at first glance,
Is an improvisation
Producing frustration
In readers, when given a chance…

I was hoping to find a bit more
In Sawako’s ridiculous Score;
But her total is zero,
This scribbling hero—
Her poem was truly a bore.

Here’s our daily prompt. Sawako Nakayasu’s poem Improvisational Score is a rather surreal prose poem describing an imaginary musical piece that proceeds in a very unmusical way.   Today, try your hand at writing your own poem.

I was inspired to post this artwork
after reading Hazhapard’s poem for today