Tag Archives: haiku

Haiku – January ‘24

5 Replies

Not a full month’s worth, but enjoy!

1/1
Not part of any
book group. Ok. Aiming for
less grievance this year.

1/2
The geranium
petals fall like papery
razor-thin blood splats.

1/3
Is it the router,
traffic, a bad battery?
Disconnection blues.

1/5
Plane reservations
still pending. I’m losing my
mind. Maybe don’t go?

1/6
It’s cold. Snow they say.
But these days when they say snow
it often just rains.

With our own eyes and
in real time, we all saw it.
Who denies and why?

1/7
The metallic clang
of plows on empty dark roads.
A curtain pulled back.

1/8
A salt shard turns Finn
into a tripod — hop! hop! —
‘til I can remove.

1/10
Diminished wind can
still overturn garbage bins.
They look defeated.

1/11
Between my midday
walk and opening the door
to Tony, temp drop.

11/12
More rain is coming.
This winter — will it be the
warmest in history?

11/13
Nail gun on drums. POP!
POP! Aye-yo-ee-ah. Vocals
by the carpenters.

1/14
The wind hints at doom.
Hey! I’m not saying this. The
bent dead grasses are.

1/15
Galaxies at our
feet — sun glinting off concrete
mica. Crisp, cold air.

1/17
Ice clatters off black
walnut branches and peppers
living room windows.

1/18
Cold wind. Eyes water.
In another block, it feels
like icy tear drops.

Isabella Stewart Gardener Museum

1/19
Hullabaloo at
corner. “When do we want it?
Now!” Newton teachers.

1/20
The ungenerous
quiet after I read had
me checking out. Gone.

1/21
Fourteen degree dog
walk. We took the short cut to
get out of the wind.

1/22
Chickadees say their
names. Doves launch into the sky,
wings squeaking “goodbye.”

1/24
Wake to a white road.
Walk on a grey road. Will dream
about a grass road.

1/25
Can’t play Wordle
this morning because I solved
it at two a.m.

1/26
Somebody’s dryer
releases faux floral scents,
but mud smells better.

1/27
Rust and lace adorn
the edges of a grey sky
like embroidery.

1/30
Who was I before
the internet? Leaden sky.
Twenty-eight degrees.

Photo at Gardener by Fabiola Jean-Louis

1/31
I like the sound of
eighty-three million dollars.
Ha ha ha ha ha!

Ice, writing, soup, and whales

4 Replies

1/8 HAIKU
A salt shard turns Finn
into a tripod — hop! hop! —
‘til I can remove.

Three writing workshops start back up this week, two I run, one attend. The structure is good, the connections, friendships. The break was really nice too. It was one week longer than planned on account of losing the internet right before going to California.

I didn’t make soup yesterday but did today. The addition of fennel and a dollop of freshly-made pesto made this batch a little different from my usual bean/tomato concoctions. Plenty by Ottolenghi the source.

His didn’t include sausage while mine used up some ancient andouille. Have no fear! I’ll survive. And if I don’t, Finn’s going down too!

Painting by Ginny Mallon (so love it!) and just received this week — two of her incredible cigar-box portraits. That’s Herman Melville on the left (with a whale inside) and Mark Helprin on the right (cats inside). I have read almost all of Helprin’s novels but never managed (shame on me!) to get through Moby Dick.

If you don’t already follow Ginny on Instagram, you should (@ virginiamallon).

*****

Lastly, two more screenshots from 2023

Haiku Dec 2023

8 Replies

12/1
I let one foot slide
off bed’s edge into cool zone.
The contrast lovely.

12/2
Chocolate looks good. But
everything else is shiny,
cheap crap. Bah humbug!

12/4
Two-forty five and
greying air edges into
shadow. Soon: nightfall.

12/5
Air feels soft, friendly
so I wonder, What’s changed? Has
Orange Jesus died?

12/6
Just north of the fence,
they gather and yip and howl.
Coyote family.

12/7
I shortchange myself
making a deposit. Lo!
BOA fixed it.

12/8
The musty attic
produces musty wrapping
papers. Chucked ‘em out.

12/9
Oak leaves hold secrets
but they are not for us.
Whisper, hush, whisper.

12/10
Pug in a stroller.
Moon face filling the cut out.
Finn doesn’t react.

12/11
The wind scoured rooves
and howled during the night. Downed
branches evidence.

12/13
I call Apollo
“Shadow” because his fur’s black,
he barks at midnight.

12/14
Hawk lifts off the bare
branch, flaps south, belly feathers
lit by winter light.

12/15
The last box posted.
Even “simple” holidays
can sour one’s mood.

12/17
One man with orange
flags. Another with a song.
Green line track repair.

12/18
A troubled maple,
big wind. Tree snaps. Fire truck lights
flash red on the wall.

12/19
The Internet’s out.
Shameful how unsettling
the disconnect is.

12/20
“Anyone who asks
if you need a ride shouldn’t be
doing so.” L.A.

12/21
His chair whines. Up. Down.
The heated blanket clicked on,
all remotes handy.

12/22
Lila hides under
the bed and speaks her worry.
Wind making doors thump.

12/23
The very narrow
Terrace 49 cut through.
Caution. Courtesy.

12/25
Hot tub fired up
for post-Christmas soak. Golden
sun on poinsettias.

12/26
Rosemary hedges
exuberant yucca, jade.
Astonishing. Lush.

12/27
Curiosity:
essential. Without it we
can feel flattened, mute.

12/29
The earthy smell of
mushroom bouillon. Butternut
ginger soup bubbles.

12/31
“Well, it’s not raining.
That’s something.” Last morning of
twenty, twenty-three.

Haiku, Nov ‘23 (first half)

5 Replies

11/1
Out with the mouth guard.
In with the flipper. If you
don’t know, you’re lucky.

11/2
Silver-haired driver.
“Now see here, Dumbledore!” Ha!
Not Robert Burns then.

Another one:

Catalpa leaves float
and sway on their way from sky
perch to rusty ground.

Birmingham

11/3
Today’s tough topics:
reparations, guilt, fear, shame.
And don’t forget: love.

11/4
A doom loop. App shows
one booking, then the other.
Never together.

11/5
There are those who love
the time change, even stay up
to watch it happen.

11/6
His name was Moses
and he called me ma’am.
Not in Boston now!

11/7
The actual bus
where Rosa Parks sat, displayed
in Montgomery.

11/8
For walking past a
house where a white woman bathed
they strung him up. Dead.

11/9
Storefronts boarded up
with plywood. Abandoned gas
stations. Weeds. Selma.

11/11

If the Black Bayou
could talk, what would it say? “Oh
sleep, sweet Emmett, sleep.”

Tallahatchie River
Cotton gin fan like the one the killers tied around Emmett Till’s neck. It weighs 70 pounds. They never expected his body to be found.
Miss Jesse Jane Demings
Refurbished Sumner courtroom where killers were acquitted in 67 minutes

 

Haiku October ‘23

4 Replies

10/1
Asters five feet tall
hosting a cohort of bees.
Beauty with purpose.

10/2
How can I think when
jackhammers and lawn machines
pound and roar and pound.

10/3
Squinting. Morning glare.
Does she hold lanyard or leash?
To Finn it matters.

10/4
Called a bearcat though
Bronx Zoo Kevin is neither.
Real name: Binturong.

10/5
Innocent bird flamed
by crisis. Antique fire truck
won’t help. Where we are.

10/6
A winding road through
Lincoln where trees are turning
and heartache resides.

10/7
“Oh look! There she is!”
Museum-goer when Madame
X came into view.

10/8
Another Sunday.
We walk around Crystal Lake
in reverse. Wild times!

10/9
Sukkot branches flung
off the frame. Grief not joy
in every toss.

10/10
Acorns tear through leaves
succumbing to gravity.
Violence of fall.

10/11
Clean the colander,
feel like crying. Walk the dog,
bathe, feel like crying.

10/12
Another treasure.
“Is it the snake or just skin?”
Crushed head in my palm.

10/13
“Oh no! It’s splodging!”
“Oh soddin’ hell! It’s so bad.”
Devonshire splits test.

10/14
Soft air, blue sky; we’ll
take the T to Copley Square.
A good day for books.

10/15
Instead of two hands,
six. Vote yes on issue one!
Ohio postcards.

 

10/16
Two Barbaras from
Cleveland writing postcards to
Ohio with me.

10/17
Unrelenting grief
and terror, bombast, so
I watch The Closer.

10/18
Dentist’s office with
dead branch outside and clutter
on the windowsill.

10/19
Pong! Pong! Black walnuts
being run over. Thud! Thud!
Thud! Hitting the ground.

10/20
SOS. What does
it mean in a centuries
old conflagration?

10/21
Cinnamon rot, the
smell of fall. Bronzing clethra
and plump hawk, the sights.

Another:
I fell in love with
a dog today. What day don’t
I? Fluffy, white, sweet.

10/22
Abigail Adams?
Of course not, dope! She’s Elsa.
Brother, caped and masked.

10/23
Stringy poop. Kleenex?
Oh no — a worm? He pulls, pulls:
embroidery floss.

10/24
We smell caramelized
sugar down near the T tracks.
Donuts? Apple cake?

10/25
Every morning I
fling treats around the backyard.
“Find it!” And he does.

10/26
He was renting shoes
when the shooting began. He
ran, hid behind pins.

10/27
Stunted oak, scrub pines
Slow traffic on Route 6 East.
Sunset on the bay.

10/28
Winking light diamonds
and the wooshing surf say, Rest,
little darling. Rest.

10/29
Pewter sky, flat sea
gun metal grey. Beauty does
not require sun.

10/30
Stitching a bird now.
The flannel house is tacked down.
Watch me make a moon.

10/31
October sun glares.
Yellow leaves glow. But winter
chill laces the air.