Life haiku
she sucks the smoke deep,
in the cigarette’s orange glow
her furrowed brow
yellow lab explodes
aware only of the ball
and the space between
the beer and the beat
colliding awkwardly
in fevered dance steps
shopping bag burden
fatigued mom sits at food court
tabletop empty
a world of what ifs
parading through tired mind
damned insomnia
warm orange sunrise
no different than yesterday’s
same old beautiful
midnight. ice melts in
abandoned drinks, hardens in
abandoned patrons
lazy afternoon
shadows slowly steal the sun
from my sleeping dog
car radio dead
thirty miles humming one verse
of tired pop song
footsteps echoing
their sound softly polished
by the evening dew
queue of freighters
moored overnight in the harbor
Atlantis rising
airport kiosk clerk
barely treading water in
deep sea of boredom
fly in the window
frantic effort echoing
through the empty house
adult punk rockers
tattooed, black clad, smoking a joint
in the minivan
squirt of pungent oil
tricycle wheel creaks to life.
(what is my lubricant?)
dog lapping water.
wind dragging through new lilacs.
dawn will be here soon
late night train whistle
I wonder: coming? going?
like all of us: both
afternoon shadows
strive to span the baseball field
going… going…
strong whiff of ginger
and I’m in my mom’s kitchen
ten, making cookies
in the reflection
you and I, superimposed
on mossy sunken stones
smiling photograph
underfoot on the sidewalk.
lost, or tossed away?
three men yelling
but the cow in the road doesn’t
seem to know those words
bathroom stall solace
five minute office escape
pants still buttoned
the kitchen faucet
dripping into the full bowl,
thoughts run to April
faux santa’s village
littered with empty cartons
labeled made in china
in the latte foam
the symmetrical fern leaf
wilting with each sip
awkward teenage boy
shifting uncomfortably
in ill-fitting fashion
scanning each station
warm comfort in classic rock
emotional rescue
old sloganed t-shirt
punctuated strangely by
cigarette burn holes
gaggle of school kids
cluttering the sidewalk with
comic bravado
poor fast food worker
absorbing misplaced wrath of
customer’s bad day
twenty-something girls
Barcardi, AC/DC
painfully off-key
drunken woman flirts
blind to both his wedding ring
and his glaring wife
the size of the ant
compared to the wide driveway
I feel strange fatigue
fresh cut mint
mashed with a silver teaspoon
ice and ginger ale
life is not a place
instead, it is everything
we keep within reach
salsa music blares,
incongruous with sullen
afternoon diners
as exhale expands
tendrils of smoke envelope
porcelain desk lamp
mini van, five kids;
front seat, the mother: still; eyes
closed; spirit beaten.
haiku one-hit-wonder
peonies now famous,
the rest, greeting card tripe
my cat does yoga
he just doesn’t call it that:
once named, once removed
english speaking boy
becomes defacto hero
to frazzled tourists
empty playground,
except a palpable sensation:
loneliness
a bit of sadness
resides at the bottom of
each perfect coffee
fat friggin’ pigeon
chomping french fries, cookie crumbs
(I hate this diet)
diet: six pounds lost!
celebrate this victory
with chocolate shake
unhappy birthday
enduring an impromptu
chain-bistro chorale
waitress flirts for tip
though harried man seems to wish
she’d work for her tip
a familiar weight,
a familiar fatigue, then
a familiar strength
even with sugar
the bitter of this black tea
will not be disguised
tired hot dog vendor
bags of rolls on a milk crate
cushion his descent
beyond the fire’s halo
noisy dark—deer! bear? worse?!
ha! come here, kitty
it seems like silence
until I quiet myself
then, small sounds emerge
tiny ant embarks
across the vast, hot asphalt:
I am inspired
lawn sprinkler returns
from other side of the yard,
child shrieks with delight
filling the silence
of my imagination,
the spatter of rain
when I stop, listen
concentrate on the cosmos
I hear everything
prideful scarecrow wears
a stoic face while his arms
support six sparrows
flailing hand gestures
punctuate her quick vignette
like cartoon kung-fu
the future, placid
yet try to touch the stillness
it ripples, changes
powell’s smells of ink,
a thousand attics, stories
waiting to be told
footsteps on the floor
say all that needs to be said:
insomnia. (sigh)
his poem, small, yet
just large enough to contain
everything
classical guitar
helpless against the thunder
long freight train clatter
visibility
is often limited by
what’s behind the eyes
sunny, fresh coffee
writing haiku on the train.
perfect morning.
my expectations
the fabric from which I craft
my disappointments
eggs, hashbrowns and toast
no matter what storms may swell
this moment is mine
dog barks once, loudly
to assure me he’s badass
then shows his belly
crowded airport
a thousand lives intersect
momentarily
cookie cutter kids
waving their so-called freak flags
same “new” every year
hope waits in the wings
suddenly reveals itself
lines in an email
vertebrae feel stacked
like a precarious pile
of bedside volumes
coffee shop bustle
reveals itself in the mug
chaos of ripples
gentle chime rings, rings,
extracting my mind from the
haze of sweet slumber
still-life with apple
is an apple really art?
he asks hungrily
telephone wires
snip, observe in the bisect
stranded urgencies
she looks as old as
the great statues of buddha
even at nineteen
long vapor trail
disappears over west hills
with my thoughts in chase
under a microscope
finding happiness hiding
in small memories
the engine’s dull drone
seems to hum a lullabye,
the name elusive
impromptu yard sale?
set of six flowered glasses
still with juice drops