Do I buy sardines
or a can of pork and beans?
The end of the month.
イワシを買うべきですかまたはイワシの缶？月末
The prim church steeplehouses circling pigeonswho shit on the bell
プリム教会の尖塔鳩を一周する家ベルのそのたわごと
Yellow flags on grass --"Step on me at your peril!"Lawn police lurking
草の上の黄色い旗「あなたの危険で私を踏んでください！」芝生の警察が潜んでいる
Cedar berries glow
a ghostly aquamarine --
the lawn needs mowing
In the summer dust
the sparrows tumble and bathe --
time to do laundry
Clouds lit from above
at sunrise make little sense --
neither does ripe kale
The Governors, all GOP/want freedom and pure liberty/for each resident/and so they resent/vaccines and masks constantly.
The private equity firm/makes English biznesses squirm/It seems we darn Yanks/have money in banks/while the is Pound very infirm.
Mountains through the haze
of gray smoke and memories --
I let the meat burn
The axe is laid at the root of the tree/and servants must productive be/If this seems harsh, remember God/works with all who might be flawed/He'll make allowance for mistakes/but won't abide pretentious fakes.
A night jar soaring
Brown leaves fallen from ash trees --
we all turn with earth
When the morning breeze
rids the lazy leaves of dew --
jumping in puddles
Provo River
The river laves feet
with the frozen stab of snow
now a memory
I'm unsubscribing
until I'm offline again;
then I might reboot
Acts of God are strange;
his works are stranger still
to those who do not know
the cross upon the hill --
who walk in noonday sun,
and swear that it is dark;
like those in days of old
who scoffed at Noah's ark.
Staring down the world
might be done in the winter
but not in summer
If times were better
the window screens would be patched
and fried fish smells shared
the mood is gone
the focus is gone
I'm gulping aspirin
then taking a nap
The scarecrows looked bored
of their seedy existence --
then the mowers come
Moths to the campfire
They become one with the smoke
while my s'more burns
Fly in the bedroom --
the window is over there,
not by the pillow
Rice and beans when cooked
with all the season's colors
and smells are a prayer.
I am a stoic
in the matter of summer --
flowers brief riot
This is a failed haiku
it treats syllables with scorn
that would make Basho smile
What a thing is this!
Mountains flex with pine and oak --
under them folks yawn
In Afghanistan
we walked on the roof of hell
weeding the flowers
Why define haiku
at all? Is it not the sound
of one heart beating?
Changing the angle
of the rug in the big room
improves perception
Green moss on tree trunks
are veins of hope in winter
when sweat and sap leave
As long as I breathe
as long as my old tongue can taste
I am near content
A bat or June bug
hovers in the red twilight
flown off by moon rise
Children chasing birds
are so wonderful at it
when they catch nothing.
A place with 100 doors --
not quiet, but hungering for
the crumbs of life.
The sun is melting
into smoke
flooding the sky.
An old calendar
whispers
clean out the closet.
Poetry with rules
is a flock of wheeling birds
who refuse to shit.
I stay in my room
traveling the universe
with a cup of tea.
Even a mountain
shrinks
given enough reason.
Escape from sleep
gives morning pleasure;
the same as embracing
the dark bed.
Summer moonlight --
ants still swarm
over a dead bee
mindlessly.
A blue and white mask
blowing around
in the summer heat.
The old man
mowing the lawn --
his hair rusted white.
Sirens at night
in the city --
slicing through asphalt.
Rice in the cooker
with one bay leaf --
my exciting life.
One drop
of water
is too much
for an ant.
The red
of a fresh apple
makes me sleepy.
A blue and white mask
blowing around
in the summer heat.
To sit outside
all night
is beyond me now.
The ripe apricots
litter the sidewalks --
how much riper
will I grow?
I cover the hole
with leaf mold --
it falls in and
rots.
I type, delete,
then retype, and
delete again --until
summer is over.
Heat tastes like copper
Dust sounds like gray dirty ghosts
Wind looks like sparrows
How I love to tip the news/with my zany thoughts and views/Journalists delete my blogs/cuz they're fancied catalogs/of conspiracies galore/against my early apgar score/Food reporters know to shun/my recipe for sally lunn/Bizness writers, too, proclaim/that my theories are to blame/for their migraines and despair/plus their early loss of hair/Still, my views do carry weight/with the masses insensate/and I'll nag newspaper scribes/until they send me lots of bribes!
