Category Archives: poetry

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Texas court about
to go rogue, undo rulings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Feb 23 review in haiku

Missed February first, but otherwise, here’s a month of haiku.

I spatchcocked a bird.
Found the spine and cut it out.
Then broke the breastbone.

Irish wool and fleece:
a two-sided coat stitched up
for the dog. Cold snap.

A violent pop
Shards held in place by the screen.
Ten below zero.

February air
skims the lake. A delicate
sparkle where ice-free.

2/5 – bonus
He says, “I’ll fix it
come spring.” Long-married answer:
“Oh? Spring of what year?”

Feb six, Monday, and
I do not wish to begin
this week. Will coffee help?

Gasp at the rubble.
Unquantifiable loss.
Somehow, we keep count.

Heat wooshes through vents
making cactus branch waggle.
Dog licks his paws. Home.

Grey sky. Rain speckles
the windshield as we head west.
Snow in the Berkshires?

Mountain to Glory.
Burgner’s Farm is gone. Pines Mom
planted tower tall.

She knows everyone.
Front desk, servers, her neighbors.
We’re just passing through.

One child picks New York.
The other picks Chicago.
News from Rieko.

“Maybe we’ve had six
inches of snow this season
total?” Overheard.

Taupe branches lift up
a pewter sky. But sunrise
burnishes bark gold.

Another tear down.
So begins the shrill beeping!
Next: jack hammer hell.

Children at the school
scream and holler in delight.
Sixty-one degrees.

“Will you rub my feet?”
Asking makes the dog go wild.
As if he’s denied!

Walking the dog loop,
I plan a salad for lunch:
beets, goat cheese, walnuts.

Campus is empty
but the swans can be found, one
so still, death waiting.

He arrived by train
wearing a gold and blue tie.
Zelenskyy teared up.

Pages from three years
ago. Ritual remembrance
or was it not me?

A leaden sky criss-
crossed by wires, poked by air vents.
I think: how lovely!

No school. No plows. White
streets with slush below. Curbs
in hiding. Take care!

Wind scatters ice chips.
They land on our heads like hail.
But it’s not. Sun’s out.

A light dusting fell
Cambridge street gone fairy white.
Twelve women, two cakes.

Where are the two mutts
who live at Bartlett corner?
Too cold to romp free.

Sleuth, poppycock, glare,
smudge, redress, cacophony.
Some words that I like.

He parks at the T
wearing hat, coat, gloves, flip flops.
A sign of something.



Feb 23, 23 Haiku

No school. No plows. White
streets with slush below. Curbs
in hiding. Take care!

It’s a good day to sit by the fire and read. I’m half way through “The Dictionary of Lost Words.” It started with a fey voice that I found a tad off-putting and at times the whole word-grabbing is predictable as a storytelling device, but the novel has hooked me. That means the author is doing a lot of things right.

XGames / found poetry

When you’re five feet tall at the Aspen XGames, you might not see much!

Holding up my phone, I could capture a bit of the slopes. At one point, I felt bold and knifed through the crowd declaring, “Five-footer coming through!” But I didn’t stay up front for long. Some ditzy woman high on something waggled and hooted and flung her arms about in a way that made me fear for my safety. Gawd.

Even though I couldn’t see much, I’m glad we went. It was an experience. Maybe not an experience of viewing elite snowboarders doing astonishing things, but an experience nevertheless.

You watch these tricks (when you can at last see them watching YouTube from the couch) and wonder: how? Not only how is such a feat possible, but how does one practice it? There are precipices involved, speed, and heart-stopping defiance of gravity. You gasp. And since records keep being broken you also wonder, is there a limit? Three spins, four. Is five next?

But I’m not here to discuss sports. I’m here to appreciate vocabulary, in particular the kind of specialized vocabulary that grows around something unique and novel. It’s musical even when you haven’t got a clue what they’re talking about.

I recorded some announcer comments one evening. It’s a found poem of sorts.

My rules for found poetry (I’ve posted some here before) are: no added words and words must be in the order that they were uttered. Enjoy!

XGames 2023 Found Poem

I guess that was a drifting back rodeo?

That was the definition of air awareness!

He’s going way too big and yet somehow he’s still alive.

Sometimes you get away with it.

Total destruction.

Does a butter.

What’s he got for Run Four?

Ooh what?

Who needs a grab?

You heard that collective groan.

‘Course he’ll get another chance.

Backslide 180.

That’s the great thing about Knuckle Huck.

This is overall impression.

I like the hand touch behind the back.

That’s my favorite part, the sway.

Almost a double clutch.

We’re under the two minute warning.

The beauty.

Contest period.

Double tango from the Icelandic legend there.

Just to take a regular run on a forked bird is haunting.

Being the dude at the bottom.

I woulda rolled out of the way.

Cap off Chipotle Knuckle Huck with Marcus Cleveland.

That’s a 1440.

That was absolutely ridiculous.

If you want to gasp yourselves, YouTube has tons of footage.

** Erasure Poems are a form of found poetry that start with a source document. I used a letter from Eliza Lucas Pinckney to her father HERE to create a few variations.

And here’s a poem made from football game commentary.