Thursday, November 7, 2019


The bee makes the honeycomb
from which honey is extracted
as payment by the farmer
who believes he is due
for his efforts
on the bee's behalf:
constructing wooden replicas
of hives and maintaining
orchards from which
pollen can be collected.
What hard work
the farmer does!
How happy the bee
unknowing and unknown
traipsing the leafy corridors
of their imagined home
dragging the golden 
treasure home 
on their legs
like mud

the farmer's dog
can't shake off.

Thursday, October 10, 2019


The color of what you remember
of your wedding dress.
When the mice get into the flour
the bread is lumpy for days.
The more butter you add,
the longer it takes
to rise. Kneed it
until it looks like soft fists
then cover it with a damp towel.
After it rises, score it once.
It will grow up with a scar

Stolen Haiku

Sleeping under the stars
the smallest noise wakes me:
the laughter of the rain on the leaves.

Miserable autumn!
Even the oaks cling to their leaves
an extra hour.

Tuesday, August 27, 2019


The birds are causing a ruckus.
Claiming their tree,
calling out their names:
grackle, grackle, robin.
The trees, dark from a long winter
stand out, ragged
against a gray sky.
But at the end of each twig
a single cold, hard flame
of what will be
this year's leaves
flares up.

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


The clouds have been torn from a notebook.

The clouds are pages torn from a notebook.

The clouds: pages torn from a notebook.