costume/1 haiku

Wind costumed for change
Warmth as impatient chauffeur
Today parades spring



Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head
Suntan Barbie married Suntan Ken
Pac-Man and Ms. Pac-Man
I’ve been married nearly 30 years
Oh the games we play

In response to

Cratered Flirt

Road to sky to moon
My double knotted shoes
My puffing breath
My narrow view
Of the super blue blood lunar eclipse moon

Nothing needs help from me
The road remains reliably horizontal
The sky dutifully accommodates clouds, stars and wishes
The moon endlessly phases, manipulates and inspires
Such a sneaky, dusty rock

The shifty thing
It drew me out
Laced me up
To watch the jumbo, color enhanced, star studded eclipse
Only to slowly and defiantly pull a cloudy blanket
Over the show
What a cratered flirt

Janus probably smiled
The last day of his month
Granting a vision of bright to cloudy
Over this suburban asphalt
Asphalt, a kind of transition
An abstract concrete
Aggregate to moon rock
Potholes to craters
Gutters to riverbeds
Manholes to volcanoes

Don’t we all run
In our own world
A private satellite
Hatted and mittened for
Transition and tide?

Just remember
A lunar eclipse is
The same moon
Teasing us all.


Morning After All

The neighborhood, dark.
It’s five-thirty in the morning, after all.

The neighborhood, cool.
It’s January, after all.

Two great horned owls on a roof.
It’s the suburbs, after all.

Exchanging hoo, hoo, hooting.
A low baritone purr, after all.

I stop my run to look up.
Hope not to stifle the owl-y incantations, after all.

Two morning rooftop silhouettes.
Me, recipient of the benediction, after all.

Owl meditation mixes with mine.
Look! there’s the sunrise, after all.



The mockingbird who nests
at the top of
the front yard maple
visits the back yard deck
for lunch.

Front and back.
Front and back.
Suet and seed.
Suet and seed.

afternoon humdrum.

The woman who lives
inside of
the house
visits the kitchen
for lunch.

Table and chair.
Table and chair.
Soup and sandwich.
Soup and sandwich.

afternoon humdrum.

Sharing the hour, but never our dreams.


Loose Library Thoughts

Wedges of unanimous unity with upright inky myths, both real and imagined.

Gazillion sanctimonious crosswords held idle for idols.

Call numbers ringing.  Who will answer?

Funding short, but not the dreams.

One for all and all for one in candid, devious and garrulous dust.



white terry robe of snow
slowly sliding south
down the shingles

the eave’s nurtured icicles

white terry robe haunting the kitchen
slowly sliding south
down morning’s conjecture

the counter percolating coffee

You walk in
I melt

Good morning, you


2 haiku/shock

Winter oxygen
Invisible narcotic
Unconfined ether


Wavelengths tease winter’s self-rule
Eight degree sunshine


Ride The Wrong Train

“Be aware of your surroundings.”
“Wait, slow down.  We need to know where we are going.”
“Let me look at the map.”

There is a push for every pull.
There is a strangle hold for every soft touch on the shoulder.
There is longing with every release.

Ride the wrong train.
Walk down a different street.
Rush, the days can be short.

Dec. 23.  I throw on yesterday’s clothes and rush out the door.  I am not even sure where I am rushing, because I am not even sure where the path begins to the place I am rushing to, but I have purpose and adventure on my mind.  I rush.  I can’t remember if I bothered to brush my teeth before I adventured.  Dec. 23 is one of the shortest days of the year, and I was not worried about anything else, except this:



I did not remain aware.  I did not know where exactly I was going.  I most certainly did not look at a map.  And, (drumroll, please), I had no idea which path led back to the rental house once my escape, err, beach walk, was over. But I most assuredly resolved not to tell my “pay attention to your surroundings” husband (who was probably just getting out of bed) about my, uh, path finding folly.

The steps that lead to the public access parking lot, and a westward walk on the road was my choice to wend my way to the rental house.  On the third step I find a large whelk.  A real beauty.  I pick up the shell, and the creature inside is wiggling.  I wish I had taken a picture, but I considered this situation a sea creature emergency. Here I go rushing again…I ran back to the water and pitched the shell back to the sea to what I hope will be a long, satisfying whelk life.

Maybe I should have explained to that wiggling creature to be more careful and aware of its surroundings.  The public access steps, or the public, in general, is no good place for a whelk, but on Dec. 23, it was surely a good place for me.



1 haiku/funnel

Scheming religion
Meteor through a funnel
Miracle enough