Haiku – 5/30/2019

A sunny bright day

Fuels Haiku inspiration

Great wonderful muse



Haiku – Unmotivated

My great haiku muse

Sitting silent and alone

Waiting to create


I know a lot you signed on for this blog because of my poetry and haiku. I am sorry if it hasn’t been popping off with that subject matter as of late. I honestly haven’t had the motivation to do it. Most of my poetry is on the fly. It pops into my head and I sit down to write out what is flowing from me. That hasn’t happened a lot lately. So, I have a lot of pre-scheduled stuff that I am letting fill the void. Next year I plan to scale back on that to just three days a week. I hope that maybe poetry and haiku will be more in earnest then. Who knows? The muse is a fickle thing and when it chooses to emerge again I will be waiting for it. How do you guys handle the drought when the muse takes a break? Just curious.

Haiku – Author 21

Rewrites once again

Creative monster unleashed

Ripping it to shreds


Author 1-20 starts herehttp://wp.me/p2kmxm-3aN

Quick question.

Do you like the title Final Damnation or The Hands of the Devil?

Here’s the description for my new book.

Tom is a ghost hunter and a good one at that. He is a man without morals, without laws, a one man do-it-yourself kind of guy. Then the devil shows up, and Tom finds he is now face to face with pure evil. This sends Tom on a journey that will bring him into contact with all of those he has loved and lost throughout the years. He will reconnect with his ex wives, his kids, and himself. He will explore a side of himself that he never thought existed while the devil tries to regain the soul he is losing. In the end Tom must face down the devil or succumb to a fiery eternal damnation. Win or lose. Tom has no choice but to fight.

Now, the opening.

It stood in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by desert, and just off a rarely used two lane road. A road that hadn’t been paved in a long time with faded solid lines, patched up holes, and age creeping up to its outer edges in the form of high weeds and grass. Golden yellow lights splashed out of its windows and glass filled door. It was a shiny, round, and circular diner – a forgotten silver object lost in time. You could almost see Sam Spade sitting in one of the booths having a cup of Joe while thinking over his latest case.

A figure appears from out of thin air in the small area of shadows on the darkest side of this diner. He’s dressed in black shoes, black three piece suit, black tie, black fedora, and a black coat. He shakes off the cold, missing the warmth of his fiery home, ready to be done with this meeting. Today, he wants to look older and wiser, ready for business. He has aged himself to the age of sixty with short hair and wrinkled features.  A doorbell clangs, as a lonely trucker, unwashed and unshaved, ready for a quick meal, steps inside the small building. The devil follows after him.