1 haiku/planet

Andromeda’s bright
And billion winking children–
We are not alone


It’s All Nonsense

Sketching birds and poetry
What a bunch of nonsense
Birds will perch on the railing
Poems will ink about the page
Whether I do anything at all
So what a bunch of nonsense

The bird, a propagandist of flight
A poem of nonconformity

The bird, a delusion for freedom
A poem for paradise

The bird, a mystery of strength
A poem of repetition

The bird, an adaptable stranger
A poem all seduced and pampered nuance


I Do Not Agree

No, no, no that’s not right at all
Not entrenched
No, not at all
The premise, slender loss
The action, irregular loss
The emotion, tenuous loss
There is no such thing as frail entrenchment
Just a mighty haze
Being pushed around in a baby carraige



Low Pressure

A hieroglyph appeared on the dash
Low tire pressure
A week of airport parking too much
Row 10/Ground level
Somehow a disappointment
Try to do better next time

Infrastructure, and all

Car manufacturers use
Hieroglyphs for tire pressure
Cuneiform for engine problem
Runes for temperature warning
So much to malfunction
Try to do better next time

Infrastructure, and all

1 haiku/thorny

Buffalo Botanical Garden

Misplaced Saguaro
Northern botanic garden
Make believe desert




Drowning Ivy

I moved myself and my writing paraphernalia to the kitchen table, so I could watch the rain.

It rained so mightily you could not see the neighbor’s house.  The storm was an opaque white blur of falling wet.  Big, heavy drops raced and jockeyed.  And it was loud.  The clouds released a tumult, pounding the deck, the furniture and the whole world.

The rain swallowed everything, including my thoughts.  I did no work.  My words were swept away.  There I sat helpless to rescue my story or the drowning ivy.

The gloom outside was a magnet.  A drenched, drowning magnet with nowhere else to cling, it amassed and assembled rivers and puddles of flooded intentions.


Where do the songbirds go when it rains?
The robin roosts, impatient for the worst of the storm to pass, so she can hunt for floating worms and swollen grubs.  Mourning doves, never shy at the all you can eat buffet, still waddle out just after the heaviest rain moves through.  Finches, nearly motionless in the maple branches, try to conserve warmth and energy with a daydream of sunrises bringing sunflower and thistle seed among a garden of marigolds and zinnias.
At least that is what I imagine.  The songbirds and I pay witness to a reverie of delayed ambition…just until the sun shines.


An Inch of Muse

Does this look like a bird to you?
Can this look like a bird to you?

An inch of mottled muse
once tumbling and swooping
through currents and thermals
of the Atlantic.

A sandpiper, perhaps?

Plucked from drifting fancy,
it looks like a bird to me.



1 haiku/visceral

Simmering heaven
Vagary in overcast
Visceral raindrops



Red Thread

A thin red thread     zig zaggy     hangs from the hem of your favorite skirt or cuff of your best blazer.  You are careful,  But the whole garment starts to unravel. You bring the skirt to a seamstress or the blazer to a tailor.  They are busy.  So many skirts and blazers to repair.  You must wait.

When you do get to pick up your favorite skirt, from afar it looks perfect.  Just like new.  You try on your best blazer.  Just visiting an old friend.  Maybe the thread color doesn’t quite match.  Maybe you notice a tiny pucker or pull.  That favorite skirt or best blazer is not like new.  It is not as perfect as you thought.

You can’t remember if the skirt was ever that great.  You can’t remember if the sleeves of the blazer were always a tad long.  Maybe you imagined your favorites. Maybe you didn’t.  Maybe the skirt was the right length.  Just below the knees. Maybe the blazer was the perfect fit.  Across the shoulders.  Maybe you are over thinking the whole zig zaggy thread problem.

Wear the skirt.  After all, you are told,  this was an expert seamstress.  Wear the blazer.  After all, you are told, this was the best tailor in the city.

You realize you may never feel exactly the same again about your favorite skirt or best blazer.  But this is what you have to work with.  A thin red thread hanging off a hem.



Spring Coydog

No random force propels her along
the path strewn of moonlight and moss–
mother Coydog