Writing Haiku

When I write haiku
I'll sometimes wonder what to do.
Striving for syllables to put on paper,
I'll languish and I'll labor.

Rules unique to the form
Forces poet's choice of words.
Letters are our medium,
Sometimes coming in tedium.

My readers may not like
What pieces I may write.
They may not always understand
My creation held in their hands.

Every now and then and
With the proper blend,
In spite of what I do,
Happily born is a haiku.

Want To Live

I want to live and
Not just exist.

I don't want to just breathe
Or to just subsist.

I don't want to waste a single day
Or another hour or another minute.

Not to waste my precious blessings,
But to appreciate each priceless one.

I want to live my given life
And to utilize my given gifts.

In spite of what I've done
Or what errors I have made;

I want to meet my Maker
And thank Him properly,

And smile gratefully up at Him
Should He ask how I lived.

Life Without Parole

Locked up within these walls
Behind gates and fences tall,
Feeling like a convicted criminal
Condemned to the job inside.

No easy way or probable parole,
Just day in and day out,
Coming back to this shithole.
Why do I do this job at all?

Three hots and the parking lot
Are all that really matter.
Like a gazelle for the gate after work
And slouching back in like a turtle.

I wonder how am I free,
Rules and regulations and policies
Are each and everywhere I turn,
Just like these inmates incarcerated here.

Why so melancholy my soul,
Why so seemingly low?
It's just my job and livelihood,
Like life without parole.

Now

Dragonfly and butterfly dancing
In the air in my backyard
Over the high uncut grass
And the downed tree branches.

Windchime orchestra playing
In the wind upon my porch.
Gentle breezes blow melodies
Pleasingly sweet, purely true.

Sunset in the west splashing
Living color across an
Early autumn clear blue sky.
No more perfect masterpiece - now.