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Late Night Haiku XI

By Tim Butler | Posted at 0:00

Confusion abounds,
In the quiet of the night
What treads forward next?

What a day it was,
Now conquered by better night,
May sleep come sweetly.

A touch of Spring comes,
Birds rejoice in melody,
Think not of winter.

Late Night Haiku X

By | Posted at 0:03

Hope erodes at times
To the loneliness of truth,
But it does not die.

Autumn leaves pass by,
Season grows shorter briskly now,
Oh! To slow the end.

A stream bubbles, faint,
As my thoughts like water flow,
Will they come ashore?

To Tell A Story

By | Posted at 18:43

I've been feeling in a reflective mood the past few days. I decided to write a letter to a friend reminiscing about a nice event last fall. It was going to be about a one page letter — in fact, I thought I might handwrite the final draft (I'm convinced handwritten notes are still preferable to typed in many respects). Well, that ain't happ'n. I said I was in a reflective mood, right? Well, I was really in that mood — the one page letter turned into a five an a half single-spaced page story (4,100 words). As is my usual mode of editing, each attempt to pare it down makes it longer. At times, my words can be like Tribbles (good thing I'm not a Klingon).

In other words, I'm wordy. Very wordy. It is at times like these, I wonder how I ever manage to meet the 600 word requirements for an op-ed… It is also at times like these I wonder if maybe I really should get into politics. ;) Seriously, I have been known to win a debate solely on the fact that I can keep churning out words until everyone has grown tired of debating with me (of course, I'm right, which helps).

Byte Wasting Project

By | Posted at 21:38

I've been working on a small project over the summer moths: creating a tragedy (as in a play, not trying to cause something bad to happen). Whether it will fulfill the Shakespearian-Jonsonian-Senecan five act mold is still up in the air, but it does follow Aristotle's guidelines for tragedy fairly closely. I don't expect that Aristotle will put my play in place of Oedipus Rex in the next edition of Poetics, but at least it wouldn't risk becoming an example of a non-unified, episodic plot lacking catharsis, hopefully.

I have not decided what to do with the play yet, perhaps it'll just rot in my bit bucket, but in the mean time, I thought I'd see if anyone would be interested in taking a look at a draft of it. There are much better things you can do with your time, but if you're a glutton for punishment, let me know. Depending on how Melpomene assists, it may be done later this week, or it may be a few more weeks before I get it to you.

Late Night Haiku IX

By | Posted at 0:05

Regularly scheduled programming really should resume tomorrow.

Frogs croak softly, softly.
Day has passed and night is here,
The day fades away.

Decisions to make,
Should not always wait fore're
But what should I do?

Though the crickets chirp,
The silence is deafening,
And time rolls onward.


Early Evening Haiku

By | Posted at 17:59

A warm wind blows by,
Birds sing in the distant trees,
A savored hour.

So much to say now,
Time does not permit it. Alas!
Let another time come.

Moving a mountain,
A mustard seed faith is all,
Can I muster that?

Late Night Haiku VII

By | Posted at 22:19

Stopping for the night,
The soft sounds of the evening,
Do sing their last song.

Path forks presently,
A point of decision here,
A cricket beckons.

Knowing what must be,
And knowing how to do it,
Are not the same thing.

Late Night Haiku VI

By | Posted at 22:09

A glorious day,
Brings me to rejoice this eve;
Grasp its dying hour.

The plan unplanned is
Far greater than the one set,
Life made in moments.

A sole dogwood tree,
Waves in wind with grace and joy,
Preview of the day.

Late Night Haiku V

By | Posted at 22:58

Softly night falls here,
The sound of the computer
Mourns the passing day.

The wind blows to, fro,
My mind too goes for the ride,
Where does it lead me?

Quiet, the cars drone on,
The soft sounds of a city night,
Someone heads t'ward home.

Sonnet IX

By | Posted at 22:38

The days grow long and trees do anxious bloom,
Warm breezes flow and conjure up the flowers.
A flower small does wish for warmth to loom,
Returning coldness would his life so sour.
Summer's prophet does gain my attention rapt,
My mind, day dreaming, does ask of future,
But Sping's foretelling doth end up all capped,
Past pending warmth the Spring would telling err.
And so I settle in to watch the birds,
Whose long southern sojourn deprived us so,
And write patient, anticipating words,
As time, ne'er ceasing, does slowly still flow.
    Let the Spring come and happy joy bring here,
    To all those who for this did lend a ear.

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