Tuesday, June 25, 2019

Bad Haiku

Like the old man from down the street
last night I found the moon
wandering around my garden.


Full moon.
I tossed and turned all night
in your shadow.


With a scrap of paper
the flowers light their lamps.


The doors are closed. The house is closed.
There are no metaphors.


Lost, I stopped in the street
to ask. But the pretty blue flowers
refused to say which way to go.

Impossible Haiku

The frog makes the sound of a leaf
turning over in its sleep.

I am tired of the mountains.
The ashes of dawn on the rose bush.
The old clocks.

Friday, May 31, 2019

Late Twentieth Century Traffic Jam Blues


Traffic's going no where
in a hurry

like a drunkard's favorite story
with predictable results:

people get angry.
Feelings get hurt.
Things get broken.
And eventually

everyone leaves.
Only to return
several days later.
Older, but none
the wiser.

Wednesday, May 29, 2019

What to Do About the Sky

What to do about the sky?

Patch the holes with pasteboard
and duct tape.

Paint it blue again.

If you don't have blue paint,
paint it white during the day
and black at night.

Gather the rubble,
the broken glass and plaster,
put it in a bottle.
Add water
and shake.

Think of the ocean.
There is so much left to do.

Friday, May 24, 2019

Bedroom Mirror

If it is a window
it hasn't been cleaned for years.

It is difficult to make out
what is on the other side.

It looks like people
doing ordinary things:
brushing their teeth,
getting dressed,
reading a book.

Usually there are one or two.
Occasionally more.

Their voices are muffled
as if speaking
a foreign language.

Of the hundreds
that come and go,
one is there all the time.

You recognize the hair,
the way he sits, staring
off into the distance.

You think he may be
trying to talk to you,
to communicate.
But you can't make out
the words.

You wave.
He waves back.

This goes on for days.

Friday, May 17, 2019

Variations

The clouds have been torn from a notebook.


The clouds are pages torn from a notebook.


The clouds: pages torn from a notebook.

Saturday, May 4, 2019

Cooking Pot

After the war
they sold their uniforms.
They hid their rifles
in the back of the wood shed.
They turned their helmets upside down,
washed off any blood,
scraped out stray hairs,
bits of flesh and brains,
and filled them with boiling water
for fifteen minutes.
When they were done
the priest said a prayer
and they started peeling
onions and potatoes
for dinner.

Monday, April 29, 2019

Paper

Is there still a tree in you,
anonymous white rectangle?
Were you once brown
with roots and leaves
and ants and squirrels
living inside you?
Hard to believe.

Hard to believe
anyone lives inside you now
unless I draw them:
poor imitations of a life
once lived in a field perhaps,
or in the front yard
of a small white house
surrounded by a picket fence
also constructed
from the shattered remains
of your ancestors.

Thursday, February 21, 2019

About your Amaryllis... (found poem)

When you follow these easy instructions
your amaryllis will bloom
in approximately four to eight weeks.
Living things have their own timetable.

Everything is included. Prepare
as per the instructions.
Stir, aerate and if necessary, drain.
Keep moist, but not wet.

Once the flowers open, move.
At the end of September,
remove the foliage.
In December, replant.

Your amaryllis will flower again.

Friday, February 8, 2019

Sharp Pointy Thing

Sharp pointy thing
meets skin and skin
gives way. Bone says
Ow! and blood
makes a mess everywhere.
Nothing serious
but we should learn
to be more careful.
Don't run. Don't carry
whatever. My body is
getting used to the noise
it makes, like a fire alarm
invented by a two-year old
which is how I behave
in my lesser moments. Alone,
hurting from whatever
physical or imagined
slight. I will be better
or at least not so loud.
later.