A mathematical poem

1 + 2 = 3

0 + 12 = 3 × 4

12 = 3 × 4
56 = 7 × 8

0 + 12 = 3 × 4
5 + 67 = 8 × 9

Hairku

I feel like dusting
but there is no dust. There is
fluff enough though, so...

Haikoo

  A moo oozes out
of a cow's mouth, in a fog
           that is not too odd.

High Q

INTENSE she came round
and hence he has found immense
her background absence.

*

*   By dew bejewelled,
ruby tulip beautified
... soon it putrefied.

Happy New Year

Robin’s orange bust
bobs a little rustily
in a sudden gust.

Duck Soup

Glassy plumes fly up, collapsing
back to a flatness that mirrors
nothing. A ponderous pause

and up springs a duckling,
fluffy but with butt bedraggled,
sipping duck-poo soup
and snatching flies from the bottom of the sky;
splurging with his siblings: like golden spiderlings, 
as busy as bees in the water-lilies. They emerge

from their submergings like broadsides
beside a lardy male evoking long-ships
with his draconian head
as he waddles by on lobstrous feet. Flustered,
he flaps his wings, and peacock-blue rhombuses blink
and fling off oddly fluttering splodges of soggy leaf-litter.
Weary of malarkey
he fans out his butt like a pack of cards
and onto a flagstone flops. Wary of malady
he gingerly stretches out his white-collared neck
for sumptuous croutons, a little presumptuously.

Unhinging winds fringe maroon-fingered moon,
like a waiter with a supernatural soup-spoon;
a crater of rubble like a burst bubble serving
as a seat of tranquillity for a duck quacking up
a soporific melody of sounds pacific: "Talk about a duck
floating on a lake, looking like a wooden decoy does;
talk about a drake ducking wooden ducks,
making all the ducklings he can make."

Sussuration Song

.......Will shining shingle sing of God?

.............Dark incarnate hearts
pump hard, as rooks heave at dusk,
.............wing-beats glistening.
.......Clouds that shroud heaven
.......hang over shadowless dusk,
..............starkly reddening.

..............Robin’s orange bust
..............bobs a little rustily
..............in a sudden gust.
Robin Redbreast drops dead, poor thing, for
it’s night, and the slimy shingle stinks of cod.
..............“In your sight all is light
..............for ignitable spite,
for recursive respites see your fighters rehearse,
as your terse universe irreversibly worsens,,

.............Rudely tulips bloom,
petals plumped round jumbling genes,
bumped by bumbling bees. Two twirling butterflies
climb a double helix. I’m a double helix
.......whose whirling wonder dies. Sparks
...............swirling upwards flash
.......into ash-flakes (“Your words dye into
paper,,) as wounding winds use weaving waves
........to bury bones in gruesome graves:
................Robin’s flotsam grotto.
................To deliberate is to delete options.
........................On other shores the sea snores
........................as the waves break, saying
......................................................“restless... restless,,
Ruddy flesh haloed
but pebble-strewn puddle owns
................muddy cherry stones.

........(there will be cherry blossom)

Words

Said the straight man to the late man
Where have you been
I've been here and I've been there
And I've been in between.

I talk to the wind
My words are all carried away
I talk to the wind
The wind does not hear
The wind cannot hear.

That's how Peter Sinfield's "I Talk To The Wind" started, in 1969

Once upon a time in Limerick

There once was a man from Limerick
Who got in his weary limb a wrick,
But he spoke so unclearly
That though broke he did dearly
Buy of splints from a tree's limb a rick.

Form is the diagram of forces

                       Dark incarnate hearts
pump hard, as rooks heave at dusk,
wing-beats glistening.

Haiku; by who?

......Yellow butterfly
fluttering—fluttering on
......over the ocean.

The best haiku ever (at least in translation)—I read it years ago and cannot now recall who wrote it (and Google was unusually unenlightening); does anyone out here know?

April is...

how The Waste Land began.

Wither with a whither

Out in the dark over the snow
The fallow fawns invisible go
With the fallow doe;
And the winds blow
Fast as the stars are slow.

That's from Thomas's Out in the Dark,
from The Great War.

Ancient Philosophy

If you think the world is
a clutter of existence
Falling through the air
with minimal resistance
You could be right,
how would I know?
Colossal youth is showing the way to go

That's from Moxham's Colossal Youth, 1980

Is touching seeing?

Does touching ascertain the certainty of touching?

If not, where is the certainty of touching
that is not ascertained by touch?

As soon as I learned to touch
I knew I was aware of life.
As soon as I knew this awareness was natural
it was no longer natural,
I'd 'fallen'.

That's from Makoto Ooka's 'Touch'.

Cat Food

Blue Tit's yellow breast,
Dawn cloud chalked on Night's blackboard:
...................................Liquorice Allsorts!
.

Science is Built of Facts

.
Those bricks are red.
More precisely their hue
is brick-red, which is to say
that when lit in the usual way
they reflect that sort of light
(marooned by my sight).

That sentence is true.
When its words are read
as usual, as they were written,
they reflect a thought that’s right.
(As naught are thoughts uncaught
by captions for actual actions.)

Those leaving leaves mean
that the trees won't be seen
for this picture of a sunset
escaping its wooden net...
Being becoming nothing
(comes to this:
.

Post Script

Soft-as-moths moggy
on moth-eaten sofa curled
to mothball her world.
.

Puzzling Puss

Quizzical moggy
ponders upon a fishpond:
Frigid frog, or frond?
.