(nb: these haiku are intended to conform to a strict definition of haiku, including the seasonal reference)

heat like death swelling
in midsummer afternoon
a fly on the wall

black cat, a statesman
a frowning old man of war
dead grass scratches paws

golden summer sun
beating down, bleaches the grass
burns my sweating skin

life flees from my grasp
long days running like water
cut a channel deep

no love in weak hearts
no hunger in weak bodies
no wind stirs my soul

gracing the long day
smiling eyes at the garden
the rose petals fall

it is cold downstairs
the basement offers refuge
from oppressive heat

how I crave nightfall
longing for the moon's return
to displace the sun

imposing mountains
rise behind the escarpments
cloudbanks in the sky

striking hot iron
forging opportunity
in the summer sun

at the waterfall
dipping your toes in at night
a glass kicked over

Free or Loose Verse

This is all recent work of mine, and all first-draft (as it were), unedited and presented as originally written.
Apologies for the formatting, I'm unsure how to have this in the middle of the page and still justified left, my coding is not very good.

Suicide Attempt

I sit on the front step and light a cigarette
watch it burn away my life
Stand under the streetlamp
I stub it out
the smell is acrid, foul
I will bury it in my garden
where it will doubtless
kill my sprouting plants



low whitecaps fold their foamwhite heads
between the isles and me
on georgian bay
an old man, staggering and nodding accross the main
implores with voiceless breath
that I not waste my life -
submit to eternity
find peace in death
and yet, here in neurotic paralysis I sit
numbed by the steady static of northern winds in trees
and down on the shore, the waves pound out
their solitary watches



out in the yard my father works
sawing branches, clipping the stem that irks
pastoral framing sensibilites


are all our lives as small as this?

a mink, small and black
dashes into the road
no time to brake
it passes under the car
I turn
and see it writhing, curling
black on the tarmac

the small lives of small things
who cannot know, crouched by the road
that they are about to die


Pro Eleutheraen

The hands that sculpted form
that lucien praised - as earnest as ever was
that sly assyrian
moved by the coiled arc
of the bronze discobolous -
so seized my lost-wax heart
artereal sprues fast run
and over his kiln has burned out the mold
leaving a hollow
into which his bronze might pour

Metric, Rhyming etc. Verse