Haiku: 子どもたち The children.

 

Small and delicate --

this girl child looks at the world

through white angel's wings.

Hot tub in winter?

Are these kings and princes or what?

In my day . . . spinach.

Haiku: 3月の不機嫌な山々 The sullen mountains of March

 

rigid black wires

against the pathless pink sky --

the Sunday March grid.

Muted red melting

into the sullen mountains --

March Sunday morning.

Restore me, mountain!

Refresh me, waking sun glimpse!

March morning cornflakes. 

Freedom Convoy

 "For 23 days starting in late January, downtown Ottawa served as a parking lot for hundreds of heavy-duty trucks, pickup trucks and other vehicles, operated by individuals who said they were fed up with the social restrictions and vaccine mandates meant to contain the spread of Covid-19."

WSJ

Tommy the trucker was fed up to here;

the rigid restrictions jabbed him like a spear.

Masking and vaccines and other gimcracks

were weighing him down like the gasoline tax.

Nobody could tell him what he ought to do.

He'd act as he wanted and eat barbecue.

So Tommy the trucker and some of his chums

got in their cabs and began beating drums.

They headed to Ottawa while honking and beeping;

which kept lots of people from napping and sleeping.

Snarling all traffic, this patriot Tommy

continued with actions that truly were balmy.

Stores had to close and a riot kept brewing

while Tommy the Trucker and friends kept on stewing.

They wanted strong drinks in their favorite pub

without any masks while they snarfed down the grub.

This Convoy of Freedom, this bandwagon giddy,

was finally stopped by police of the city.

Tommy the Trucker was soon shooed away.

His hero's work done, he went home without pay.

Home without pay, but his head still held high;

he'd proved to Trudeau he was Freedom's good guy.

A seat in the Parliament would be his, at worst;

he just had to learn how to read a book first.

A child's Sunday afternoon

 

The ham with cloves 

from all the kitchen stoves

sits upon the table drear

waiting for the presbyter.

Dad takes out his dentures,

while speaking of debentures. 

Mother disapproving,

the dishes all removing.

Sunday TV shows

with their trope-infested prose;

how I long for some ice cream 

to sweeten up my young blood stream.

Canned laughter as I cry

when it's time for beddy-bye.

But I take the Sunday funnies

into bed with fairy bunnies.

So the Sabbath day I keep

while I'm hopping off to sleep.

Then the voice of Allen Funt

from downstairs says I'm a runt.

Haiku: 完璧な降雪 The perfect snowfall

 

the perfect snowfall --

so quiet it doesn't sigh;

blank white on green slate.

the perfect snowfall -- 

asleep on a pile of wood;

old rivals at peace.

the perfect snowfall --

fast falling off the branches;

so goes all our dreams.

Shirley.

A baby picture --

on the dirty barren grass;

so distant and lost.

Ice and salt melting

together on the asphalt --

winter soup du jour.

nobody calling --

but everybody talking;

welcome to the noise.

 the old leather chairs --

faded and cracked and worn out;

like those who sit there.

Narrative Poem: Help Wanted.

I went to work at Pizza Shack for fifteen dollars an hour.

It was a good gig while it lasted.

Then the boss yelled at me for sneezing on the dough.

So I left. Just threw off my apron and walked out.

There was a bus waiting for me outside. To take me to the rope factory.

Where I got twenty dollars an hour. For inspecting rope.

But that was as dull as dust. 

Sensing my dissatisfaction, I was approached by a headhunter.

She offered me my weight in gold to supervise a robocall center.

In Nebraska.

But who wants to live in Nebraska?

It's a great place . . . if you're a cornstalk.

She sweetened the deal by saying I could instead

go to the island of Bali and handle the robocall center there.

That sounded better, so I took the position.

But when I was flown to Bali the island had sunk.

In a recent typhoon. There was nothing left.

But floating coconuts.

So I went back to Pizza Shack. As the manager.

They let me live in the owner's penthouse apartment.

I bathe in the milk of Assyrian she-asses.

My assistant applies kohl around my eyes twice a day.

I have the power of life and death over thousands.

But still, the work is not all that fulfilling.

So I'm signing up with the Coast Guard in April. 

I already passed their physical. 

 

Haiku: 曇った山 Cloudy mountain white.

 

Even dull mornings

are brighter than the day's end;

cloudy mountain white.

dead white and dark green --

both struggle to carry on;

the finches bellow.

the finches bellow 

because their tree branch burned down --

no more closet space.

sleepy man in chair

what put you so much there?

are you a lazy slob

or is this a full-time job?

Haiku: タマネギの皮のように白い雪 Snow as white as onion peel

 

branches against brick --

snow as white as onion peel;

after church, a nap.

Carrots on counter --

dirty orange and crooked;

a bent sacrifice.

mother and daughter --

in the kitchen by their choice;

potatoes are fun.

Potatoes au gratin. At Valley Villa. For free. A cooking fetish.

I love cooking for large groups. So does Amy. So today Amy and I are preparing a huge Sunday dinner for after Stake Conference. It's open to everyone and anyone. At no charge. You just have to bring your own bowl/plate. We're serving a cheesy potato casserole with hamburger; slow cooker cabbage, carrots, and onions; and Amy's fabulous peanut butter/chocolate chip cookies. Anyone who shows up at our door at 1 p.m. will get a heapin' helpin'.

And don't forget to tune into KUTV Channel 2--Salt Lake, this coming Tuesday at 10 p.m. for a video on our crazy cooking fetish -- the TV crew interviewed us for 2 hours while we served split pea soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.