Haiku.

 

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. 

Haiku.

 

 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.

Haiku

 

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

Haiku

 

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

Haiku

 

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

Haiku.

 

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.

Torku.

 

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.

Haiku.

 

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

A News Tip To Coral Murphy of the New York Times.

 

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!  

Prose Poem: The Boycotter.

 

I'm in the middle of my biggest boycott

ever.

One day soon the media will recognize

the importance of what I'm doing and 

I'll go viral in a New York minute.

*

I started boycotting as a child.

I boycotted my Cream of Wheat frequently.

Despite cruel repercussions from my mother.

Boycotting school came as naturally to me

as falling off a log.

My determined boycott of brushing

my teeth was my first real success -- 

 I had a full set of dentures 

by the age of twenty.

*

Why work when you can boycott --

am I right?

I boycotted my job at the Post Office.

Then at the Ford Motor Plant.

Then at the lawn service my brother ran.

I'm proud to say that I withheld my

patronage from the entire Silicon Valley

cartel.

*

I am still boycotting Covid-19.

And masks, of course.

And apartheid in Mexico.

I have always boycotted Burmese cats.

*

And now my biggest boycott

is taking place right in my own

apartment.

I am boycotting global warming

by the simple action of ripping out

my thermostat. 

This has already piqued the interest

of building management.

I expect that interest will grow

exponentially,

and I am already learning Swedish

for my appearance at the 

Nobel Prize Awards Ceremony

in Stockholm . . .

Where I will explain why I

am boycotting my award.