A half way to live

1 Comment


Selected poems



Serious haiku

Is deep and meaningful thought.

But not in my verse


It's five syllables

Then just seven in this line,

That never make sense.


For instance, today

It is raining. Tomorrow,

It is Wednesday.


Brunch can be a lunch

When it is salad and egg,

not fried spaghetti.


My car will not start

For it is old and broken;

A little like me.


Can we make love now?

No you cannot she replied,

We have only just met


How about some sex?

Yes please yes, she said eagerly,

Next Friday two weeks.


Heavens open up

I get very wet and cold,

And catch pneumonia.


Ants have small mouths

So do not eat much at all,

And do not grow big.


Five eggs in a pan

Tossed and fried up together

Are such a big mess.


I love to kiss,

And always try for more

Than she ever does.


The love of my life

Is long gone; she found another

And went off with him.


I cannot help laugh

When I write serious verse

That I call haiku.


The soul of my house

Are those who live within it.

It also needs painting.





Distant she said. Superficial was his word

Words to describe all that they cared

After the years gone by, long gone

And two children now almost reared.


Twenty they were, those changing years

Love replaced by void, even fears

A house, a high hill, ambitious pride,

A façade, an emptiness, describe it now


A decade ago, anger enough

He quiet, cutting, resentful

She screaming, yelling, throwing,

A vase, abuse, hurt pride


Ten years they have found a half way

To live. To hurt less, to give a say

To the need to express, of each to the other

Superficial is his word. Distant is hers.




New York

Life is full of surprises, places, people

Upstate, summer, on the lake,

the people from 82nd. street

a cottage, timbered, at water's edge,

unbelievably quiet.


Not that far, a pub, all invitation, local noise,

we drive, a half-hour, too far to walk,

the small village, a boat repairer, two shops,

sold everything. Like my childhood.


So quiet, remote, far removed yet so near

to a city that defies gravity, huge, confronting,

A city that is America, loved and hated,

brass knuckles, noisy, ambitious,

A city of universities, bookstores, theatre.

hamburger joints and Chinese laundries.


A city where unreachable minds, unreadable people,

created ground zero.

Often we think that it could only be there

that we could watch a building disintegrate

while so many people die.


It may have places of quiet dignity,

there maybe an old world charm,

But we see do not see this beauty

and rarely realize its charm.


We see instead downtown canyons

that never see the sun

yellow cabs and rushing people

speaking in a hundred different voices


The world is there; It is a city like no other.

It is the future for all others.




Down the coast

Four, five miles out

Cannot pick the roads

Beaches and headlands clear

Easing past one-by-one.


You know a few of the places,

But the beaches every one

People on them, barely seen

Peaceful in a sunny sky.


Weather is fair

Sea and swell so gentle

Winds following,

Sun strong. A joy to sail.


The boat in its little world,

The sea and the sky surround

Brown birds that swoop and dive

Skuas? Gannets? No-one knows.


The sea itself the pleasure

A fish goes flying over

Two dolphins come a little later

I wonder there'll be a whale?


Joys they are but the magic

is the whole of that world

A boat, the wind, the sun

in a gentle glass cocoon

making way down the coast



Peter BowdenPeter Bowden is a former academic, once professor of administrative studies at the University of Manchester, who now writes for a living. His most recent book, 65+. The Best Years of Your Life, is available on Amazon, or directly from the author for $32 plus $3 postage.

Topic tags: Peter Bowden, poetry



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Existing comments

This man’s haiku is inspired. I want to know how he can make a living, writing. Is he an angel? For No woman can Do It

Moira | 07 February 2019  

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