For your reading pleasure, here are a few more of my police blotter haiku: simple poetry adapted from the police blotter columns of small-town newspapers across America.
Some of this evening's haiku come from a new source: the Greater Crater Journal-Armenian. Greater Crater was a small agriculture center that doubled in size during the housing boom. When the boom collapsed, Greater Crater had to deal with the fallout: emptying neighborhoods of ticky-tacky houses, a collapsing budget, new forms of crime.
Yet Greater Crater still holds the annual Lima Bean Festival, elects a Bean Queen, and grows amazing cantaloupes. And it loves its police blotter. The Journal-Armenian publishes a big one five days a week. Greater Crater is still a small town at the core.
So live from Greater Crater, Bonanzaburg, Lake Harborwoodville, and all the other stalwart towns of the police blotter universe, here are 11 more police blotter haiku. And as always, enjoy.
The 'Burb Commandment:
Dump not in others' dumpsters.
He breaks it -- sinner!
Both names on the lease.
In vain, each ex struggles to
eject the other.
On Bear Crossing Road,
She shrieked and qualied at the sight
of a bear, crossing.
The end of childhood.
She smelled it as pot smoke on
her skateboarder son.
The staff of that store
were all (bleeping) rude (bleep) (bleeps)
he told the police.
The police asked him
to consider calling his
ex-wife less often
On Halloween Night
He saw suspicious people
in his neighborhood.
"Possible poached deer."
The phrase leaves one to wonder
what they poached it in.
Set fire to a tire!
Strange inspiration struck him.
But the cop said "Stop!"
Their calm streets witnessed
A wild-eyed man with dreadlocks
wielding a spear gun.
She claimed he'd hurt her.
When it was her feelings that
he'd really wounded.
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