Category Archives: poetry

Haiku round up May ‘23

I missed a day, but otherwise there’s one haiku per day. As many of you know, I post from my phone and there I can’t create single spacing. Sorry for the inconsistency with that.

5/1
Maples, then beeches.
Catalpa comes last with those
dinner-plate-sized leaves.

5/2
Talk to me please like
I talk to my dog: WHAT A
GOOD, GOOD GIRL YOU ARE!

5/3

Telephone wires,
sky, yellow parking stripes, tar.
Beauty’s everywhere.

5/4

The morning’s haiku
has vanished. Meals, sewing, moods
all taking their due.

5/5

Melody across
the rooftops. Church bells or ice / cream truck? Where am I?

5/7

Present arms! Long live
Blah blah His Majesty blah.
How silly they look!

5/8
Her orange sari
flaps as she walks. Same, my new
rust-colored duster.

5/9
Sudden quiet means
I can hear the flicker call
across the gully.

5/10

CNN took a
dump on democracy with
that interview. Shame!

5/11

Bold and scrawny, she
Looks around, trots up the street.
Neighbor coyote.

5/12

Even before the
UPS guy tossed the treat
Finn knew that he would.

5/13

The colors can’t be
named and yet we try: fuschia,
Persian blue, star pink.

5/14

He texts me to say
he’s getting a tattoo and
will call later. Sons.

5/15
The rhodies deserve
a little space. We all do.
So I dig up ferns.

5/16

Striped shirt, close-set eyes,
coffee in one hand, her hat
lined with orange fur.

5/17
The wind-tossed branches
and fluttering leaves seem to
have something to say.

* * C A L I F O R N I A * *

5/19

Arms at three and twelve,
orange wands in hand. They point
the jet to its bay.

5/20
He’s not hungry. Not
now. Doesn’t want to go out- / doors. But soccer — yes!

5/21
Weeding succulents
is one thing. Weeding cacti
quite another thing.

5/22

Tim Scott announces.
Plunging in with zero chance.
Confidence envy.

5/23
We gather and write
confined to six screen boxes
but the hearts bound free.

5/24
Pruning sheers impart
royalty as blossoms rain
down on me. Purple.

5/25 : the anniversary of George Floyd’s death

5/26
Jasmine blooms smell sweet
while waves of eucalyptus
suggest vapo-rub.

5/27

FaceTimer with leash
earns a special place in hell
WHERE THERE ARE NO DOGS.

5/28

Secluded path, blind
curves. She wears headphones, hot pink.
Fearless or stupid?

5/29

A fence: waterfalls
of nasturtium, yucca,
jade crowding the links.

5/30

Eighties rock band tee,
cartoon planets on his shorts,
tree of life tattoo.

5/31
The squirrel looks, freezes.
Lila stares and freezes too.
Left paw lifted, held.

April 2023 in Haiku

Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

4/1
Needham Street empty
even on a Saturday.
One of rain’s blessings.

4/2
Sedum clumped with leaves.
I pick them out, snap old stalks,
revealing green buds.

4/3
Mouse turds, balsam, dust.
A page from 9/11.
“I begin to cry.”

4/4
Stupid blonde Nazi
lasted only ten minutes.
I love New Yorkers!

4/5
Cars parked down the street.
The prayers have likely begun.
Gathering again.

4/6
We talk at the curb.
Three out of five in slippers.
The power’s gone out.

The power comes back
with a whoosh, click, and a hum.
Finn barks his head off.

4/7
I forgot my phone.
How can I feel this naked?
The dog doesn’t care.

4/8
Tennessee Justins —
Galvanizing, beautiful.
Their fire inspires.

4/9
Critter annoys us
storing nuts between the joists
living his best life.

4/10
Fifty-five by one.
Today the bird bath goes out.
Flapping joy to come.

4/11

Always in clumps, some
open, some closed, some pale, some
like neon butter.

4/12

Ruby maple buds
litter the ground. Strewn jewels
or kid’s cereal?

4/13
Buzzing, insistent
on the wrong side of the glass.
Hello bumblebee!

4/14
The canopy starts
to assert itself. Green fuzz,
promises of shade.

4/15
The lake holds the sky
and somehow our wishes too.
You don’t have to ask!

4/16
In my dream I sew
a go bag. Indigo lace.
Again. And for what?

4/17
Mary Oliver
lauds idleness. Someone though
was busy writing.

4/17 Bonus
Crowds out in the rain,
screaming, clapping. Obiri
pulls out for the win.

4/18
Jayland Walker ran.
Cops shot him forty-six times.
Handcuffed a dead man.

4/19
If a woman says
she has a UTI, then
she has one. The end.

4/20
To rake liatris
is to feel satisfaction.
The mop free of leaves.

4/21
No forsythia
this year. Temperatures too weird.
Will yellow return?

4/22
Twitter is trash now.
Second monied narcissist
ruining stuff. Sigh.

4/23
Too cold and rainy
for the loop. Instead we make
the figure eight. Wet!

4/24
Bluebells. Chill air. Mud.
Soon the ferns will stretch upwards
with glorious speed.

4/25
New rock wall. New deck.
Second floor ready for joists.
Changes on our route.

4/26  three today
Fresh mulch scents my block.
Animal. Woody. Have I
ever loved a horse?

Clunk and whoosh, the T
goes under the Langley bridge.
I find a penny.

New Yorkers have known.
The very day the law changed,
Carroll filed her suit.

4/27
“Share something she said.”
Years of writing together
yield jewel after jewel.

4/28
Zooey Zephyr holds
her mike high, a new symbol
of the resistance.

4/29
Who lives in that house —
the one where father then son
killed themselves. Such grief!

It’s warm enough now
for the lake project to plant.
Sweetspire! Young maples!

4/30
How many rain beads
does it take to turn tulips
into a Queen’s crown?

Haiku from today’s walk

Today’s walk generated six haiku. Since that’s too many for my monthly recap, here they are. I’m posting from my phone (where I have yet to figure out how to single space), so I’ve employed slashes to indicate line breaks.

Can I just admit / I do not like paprika / either smoked or sweet?

Look down for a change. / Mica chips in the sidewalk / offer sly beauty.

Mia Farrow tires / of Harry-Meghan stories. / She’s a racist now?

Code switching is not / new. Can we stop pretending / that it is? Jesus!

Since New York Lucy / said pacing is a problem / thirty pages — gone!

Every morning: a / red dot, but there is no call. / It’s a ghost. I swear.

March of 23 in Haiku

I record this near daily practice not because I know anything about writing haiku, but because I love the snapshots they afford — sometimes better than anything else I might write about a given day. Enjoy!

3/1
First chapter 12 point
one inch margins, submit
by five. Rinse. Repeat.

3/2
Raindrops tap skylight
wet dimples that slide and blur
catalpa branches.

3/3
News from Ohio
focuses on folks’ anger
not on the poisons.

3/4
Walnut coffee cake,
butternut soup, and salmon.
I’ll press the napkins!

3/5
Dirty, twisted mask
lying curbside, so forlorn —
like a weird sage punk.

3/6
Six men tap brackets,
forms numbered with blue stencils.
A new foundation.

3/7
Two thousand plus steps
to Chase Ave, the halfway point.
Look at your phone much?

3/8
Winter is ending.
We know by the length of days,
crocus poking up.

Gut pain lower left.
Slept hard from noon until three.
Sipping water now.

3/9
White husky returns.
Slower, stiffer than before.
She’ll still stare you down.

3/10
Midnight scroll for son
reconsidering majors.
Must we exclude math?

3/11
It’s above freezing
but snow drifts down anyway.
Casual, flirty.

3/12
The hat you gave me
abandoned on the park bench.
Back I went for it.

3/13
Jane offers me stock.
Homemade. Chicken. I say yes.
Mushroom risotto!

3/14
Cold percussive rain
patters my umbrella, code
I don’t understand.

3/15
Texas court about
to go rogue, undo rulings
by FDA. FUCK!

3/16
The beech shadows stretch
across neighbor’s lawn, somehow
looking sweet, lively.

3/17
One potato, two
potato, grey rot. Happy
Saint Patrick’s Day. Oy!

3/18
Etsy nightmare sends
me outdoors. I smell spring and
decide to close shop.

3/19
Brave daffodils pop.
A cold wind, a sapphire lake.
Cedar branches flap.

3/20
Crows and blue jays squawk.
The music house is silent.
Then, a dead sparrow.

3/21
Found: the two of spades.
Was freedom on your mind then
or curious dread?

3/22
Clang, clang, clang, and whoosh.
Then, T squealing to a halt.
Above: dusty blue.

3/23
A head full of snot.
Pink stripe blessedly absent.
Soon, a second bath.

3/25
“Remember,” says rake
and leaf mold, “all the seasons
that have come before.”

3/26
The old tin liner —
seasons of corrosion, rust —
the bottom gives way.

3/27
Tiny maroon blades
emerge out of winter’s dirt.
Come June: peonies.

3/28
Rain dimples the deck
also speckles my glasses.
It’s a hot soup day.

3/29
Step outside and walk.
Chilly enough to go back
and grab a down coat.

3/30
Soon after sunset
five planets will line up, shine.
I won’t see them though.

3/31
First indictment day.
Thank you SBJ. Thank you!
Sweet baby jesus.

 

 

Shadows and poems

Muscular and assertive shadows with claims to the olden days. Wisteria.

Shadows that process.

A delicate shadow that refuses your judgment.

Shadows warmed by wood.

A shadow with secrets.

A bevy of shadows? Or perhaps a parliament. No, a convocation!

Happy Monday all! We walked out with Finn this morning, flexible in our gear. Hats on, hats off, gloves on, gloves off. Langley windy, as usual. Warmed up by the bottom of the Cypress slope, as usual. We feel spring arrive through the lens of habit and garments. Finn sleeps now. Pooped.