Panicked/2 Haiku

Spring morning dog walk
Boxer splashes in the lake
Panicked turtle dives

The back door opens
Tabby cat patrols the deck
Panicked sparrows fly


None/1 Haiku

Showpiece in the night
Sirius, gem of the sky
None sparkles brighter



Control/2 Haiku

Cologne and kisses
Old lovers trade smiles and flirt
Sweet love in control

Midnight shadows call
Smiling moon man in control
Midnight light answers



Poetry Apprentice

The story my mother told me goes something like this:  When she graduated from high school, her father told her she had to make a choice.  Either get married or go to college.  He was not paying for college if she was going to get married.  She chose marriage over Brown.

She also, however, told me she should have been a nun.  This proclamation never made much sense to me no matter how many times it was stated.  My mother was not Catholic, or any other denomination I could discern.  She drank, smoked profusely and gave birth to 3 children.  I never witnessed any sort of repentant behavior that even remotely gave me pause that my mother would have been suitable for convent life.

What my mother lacked in true religious fervor was robustly atoned for by her love of all variety of writing.

When she was in sixth grade she was given a poetry book for perfect attendance in Sunday School.  Yep, Sunday School.  I was told that this poetry book was the only good that ever came out of church.  I do not know if that included the Bible.  I was a preschooler, who was I to question.  Let me rephrase that.  I was a smart preschooler; I did not question.

The book has always looked like this.  I never asked why or how the cover was lost.  My mother would have had it about 48 years, and I have had it about 28 years.

Being a compliant and good natured child, my mother set about instilling in me a love for all manner of writing as well.  While she made it abundantly clear David, the oldest child, was her all-time favorite, I was the youngest, the only girl and of a sensitive nature.  This sensitivity mixed with my mother’s authoritarian rule actually made for a healthy contrast where poetry was involved.  Instilling her admiration for poetry would not be difficult, because her enthusiasm was contagious and oh! she could recite with such passion and soul.

We dove right in, my mother and I.  And I am pretty sure I was the only 4 year old in my neighborhood who could recite around a hundred poems from the 19th century.  I recited “The Duel” (Eugene Field) on command:  “The gingham dog and the calico cat, side by side on the table sat…”

When I was quiet or withdrawn, my mother would look at me.  “The world is too much with us; late and soon.”  (Wordsworth).

If she needed me to help her:  “Will you walk into my parlor? said the spider to the fly.”  (Mary Hewitt).

When she finished a book that she really enjoyed, she would recite the whole of “There is no Frigate like a Book…”  (Emily Dickinson).

And every spring:  “Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.”  (Joyce Kilmer).

Thanks, Mom



Take Your Hat Off

Baseball cap
Trucker hat
Whatever you call that thing
On your head,
At the dinner table,
Take your hat off.

Whatever you call that thing
Regarding admiration and tradition,
At the dinner table,
Take your hat off.

Whatever you call that thing
My Marine daughter observed on leave,
At the dinner table,
Take your hat off.

Show some courtesy
Hold some regard
Observe some honor
Whatever you call that thing
My WWII Navy veteran father would expect,
At the dinner table,
Take your hat off.

NaPoWriMo/1 Haiku, 1 Tanka

Spring spiders weave webs
Intricate nets catch dinner
Kitchen and cupboards

Designs etched on grass
Complex nocturnes of hard work
Sparkle and shimmer
Summer morning spider webs
Unexpected art on view


Per the NaPoWriMo prompt, my inspiration was a haiku by Kobayashi Issa.

Night Words

There is a gate where words wait
At the interlude of wake and sleep.
Jostling.  Shifting.
Disorderly.  They press forward.

Night words feel invincible
Flying away to hunt with Orion or
Sail with Argonauts.
The night word is brave and elusive.

Detect and intercept night words swiftly.
The common bedside notebook is the best snare.
The notebook will subdue the captives until dawn.
Night words are submissive in the morning.


Poem In Your Pocket Morning

Put this poem in your pocket, I say
He looks at me
Like you would look at some docile crazy person

My husband analyzes profit statements
not poems
My husband writes spreadsheets
not essays
My husband attends conferences
not readings

But, oh, he reads me
and slides the poem in his briefcase

NaPoWriMo Haiku

I do not like to title haiku, but if I were to put a title on this it would be Excess…except haiku and excess are a bit of an oxymoron.  Possibly I need a vacation, or a time out or a drink…

Excavate landfill remains
Modern day excess

3 Roots/3 Haiku

Tree roots above ground
Below is dark and wormy
Air and sun so sweet


Yellow haired man’s greed
Lies and deception abound
Root of the problem


Three strikes you are out
Excited fans fill bleachers
Root for the home team