Haiku For Whistling Amorists, And The Sorrow Doled Woeful

Although nonce, the yore
Still spoons tepid on my tongue;
That duck soup we made

Hundred acre hearts
Iamb up to an aleph;
Kowtow to the ken

When you cut me out
Use scissors unmusical:
Grace us no graces

Perennial Haiku

Bulldozed homestead, but
nobody told the tulips:
blessed be those bulbs

Three Little Lines & Seventeen Little Syllables

One of three made good
now but two to do, well, three
of three made good now

Five syllables penned
six still to set down, oops,
we fluffed the kigo

The Future Is Words

Gregarious lore
Whistles sweetly out ethos;
Drums featly therewith