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:

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

classical guitar
helpless against the thunder
long freight train clatter

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

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

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