Nocturne Haiku

If each star a sun
How many moons orbiting
In measured quiet?

 

You Gave Them To Me

It’s better to descend than ascend.

So first you must reach the top and claim victory.

Nope, victory is overrated.
Besides, who says victory is at the summit?

I agree “summit” is a state of mind; however, the high road provides the best view.

The high road is windy and cold.  Stay below for the bright forsythia and green moss.

There is great comfort in closeness and confined quarters, but it is the horizon that provides direction and is best viewed from an apex position.

The sun rises just over the deck.  No reason to worry about that pesky horizon.

Some see the horizon nearer than others.  The sun rises and starts new each day, climbing high in the sky and only setting when it is time to rest; until rising again.  Climb, Sun.

I see the sunrise on the deck.
The moon, too.
You know why?
Because you gave them to me.
All of them.
Sun, clouds, wind, stars…
All mine.
From you.
Time to climb in bed…

Climbing

Edging Closer

The middle (of something) was today’s prompt for 

Mom, are you going to live to be 106?
I smile.
Depends, I suppose.
Definitely you are not middle-aged anymore.
Liberating, really.
Edging closer to…what exactly?
 

Top branches bud first
Middle branches are safest
Low branches too thin
Nesting in prime real estate
Maple condominium

Three Measures for Miles

Jazz before noon
a sinful interlude–
a measure of Miles

In college I won a call-in radio trivia contest.  The answer was Dizzy Gillespie. The next week it was Charlie Parker.  The next, John Coltrane.  Then they asked me not to call anymore.  I was “Kind of Blue”.

Miles Davis playing
Introspective trumpet notes
A backbeat for jazz
Smile at improvisation
Melodies that fill the soul

 

 

Measure

Papa’s Every Morning

Turn the radio to WENY every morning.
Two scoops of Maxwell House into the percolator every morning.

Wearily check the thermometer hanging outside the window over the sink
hoping it reads above zero every morning.

Shave in a corner in the kitchen.  Don’t wake my mother.
Aqua Velva every morning.

Put on a plaid wool coat and hat.  Smile at me.
Say “Good morning, Little One” every morning.

Remember the smell of coffee and Aqua Velva.
Remember I was only Little One to him, every morning.

 

 

 

 

 

Gold Again

The goldfinches are gold again
Not their winter buffy green
The flock bobs and sways in
Timely rhythm
A black and yellow cha cha

 

 

Timely

Joy, Jargon and Justice

The prompt for Day 12 was to use alliteration…this entry is extreme.  In fact, I considered not posting, but hey…  My daughter enlisted in the Marines just about a year ago, so I guess she is on my mind.

Already awesome Anne
Barely back from Bath & Body works, basketball
Camp and community college
Decidedly displayed determination with
Extra self examination and
Foresight into fabulous new frontiers.  My
Grateful, glorious, goal-setting girl
Hurried happily to
Improve, inquire and inject her life with a
Jolt of joy, jargon and justice.
Kinship keeps you kicking, she finds.
Loyalty leveraged and loaded by every
Motivational morning Marine Corps., masters of
Notorious but noble
Objectives of orientation and obeying.
Practice, prepare, protect and partner, because
Quantifiable and quantitative results are expected.
Recruited, responsible, reliable, real, robust and raucous
So simple, silly…Semper Fi.

 

A Billion Tiny Hearts

It rained last night.
The cushions on the patio furniture are wet.
I spend a lot of time on the patio
watching the birds.
The birds do not give a hoot
(Ha!  Get it?)
or a tweet
(Oh!  I can be so funny.)
if I watch them.

I do not drive very much.
I fly
like the birds.

This nonsense is brought to you by 3:41 am.

And speaking of time,
it took my blonde
which my husband insists was red.
Maybe he is color-blind
or imaginative.

And speaking of imagination,
there are 7.49 BILLION hearts beating tonight.
What if we could touch them?
What if 7.49 billion tiny, delicate paper hearts
came floating down from heaven?
Just to remind us we have one.
A heart, that is.

What causes so much hatred?
Rain makes everything wet.  Everything.
Time takes everyone’s blonde.  Everyone’s.
(It is 4:08 am.)
God.  I am tired.

When I was a girl
I did not think about god much.
Then for a while I did.
Now.  Not so much.

Now I think of tiny paper hearts.
And I fly
like the birds.

 

Wild Violets

In the spring in the suburbs
the lawns start to grow and
the neighbors peer
over their fences to compare
dogwoods and daffodils
and errant dandelions.

Civilizing an unruly season

The lawn services appear
to spray “emergent” before
thunderstorms can wash the chemicals away and
the pool guys arrive in their
vans that say Aloha and
Paradise while a teenager
drags hoses and chlorine to the
green, murky mess in the backyard.

Civilizing an unruly season

There’s nothing wrong with
a few dandelions, clover or little wild violets
except they are just that, wild
and if growth cannot be fenced,
bordered, contained or corralled,
it does not belong in the suburbs.

Civilizing an unruly season

Listen Close

My mother said he didn’t talk enough.
Yes, he did.  You weren’t listening.
My brother said he wasn’t a good teacher.
Yes, he was.  You weren’t paying attention.

He was a minimalist in outward expression.
A master at observation.

You could just be with him.
Fish with him.  It was probably a series of re-hooking, line-tying, bull-head removing frustration.  He never showed it.
Walk with him.  If he went off alone, he would come back with a couple apples from some secret tree he knew of.  We would eat them right then, juice running down to our elbows.  One time he came to get me.  He found a litter of feral kittens in the hole at the base of a tree.
Pick blackberries with him.  He would surreptitiously hand me the biggest, ripest ones, the gift of an August afternoon.

Everyone said he was very lucky
at dice and cards
in the Navy.
Maybe.
Always thought I was
the lucky one.