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Rumbles of thunder
promise that soon fat raindrops
will bring refreshment.
Nobody wants to
be there. Even the teachers
sit, watching the clock.
At the interview
J’s hired on the spot, full of
new employee glee.
Has it really been
a month since I told you all
about my day, dear?
Formally over
twelve years of learning to look
good on this one night.
Cap, gown, diploma,
degree. A sense of self the
take-away that counts.
She can’t stand her. He’s
her ex, so don’t include them.
Can’t we go alone?
In it she was arm
candy, someone that turned heads
unexpectedly.
He sent sensitive
documents to a stranger
thinking it was me.
When’s the right time to
wash winter blankets? Last night
I saw snowflakes fall.
Dog is lagging yet
clear skies pale green leaves urge me
to linger longer.
He tours in a case
like an aged Ken, “mint in box”
they’d say on eBay.
Rake leaves left over
from fall. Clean porch furniture.
Spring into action.
At a diner it’s
normal, but at home pancakes
seems so decadent.
An unexpected
crocus emerges, smiling
from a brown leaf pile.
Florida is the
cheese at the end of the maze
known as air travel.
Like cows with their cud
we would chew constantly, and
then we’d all swallow.
One piece would last for
hours and have few calories.
(I’m working on it.)
From a Revealing
start to this auspicious point -
my life in short form.
Night winds roar like a
giant parent screaming “Go
to sleep!” without words.
Hunched and hobbling I
move as if years older, a
taste of what’s to come.
We all complain there’s
no place to plug in. One by
one, our laptops die.
Muddy quads, walls bare
of ivy still inspire awe.
Can we get in?
Ph.D.s waitress
here, M.A.s babysit, ’cause
no one wants to leave.
Hills like cut paper
black against tissue blue skies.
Through poked holes, stars shine.
Incrementally
I clean unearthing a clear
space on the table.
Now that the snow is
gone, her neglected garden
pokes up stalks of loss.
Wan, pale, red-eyed, she’s
the poster wife of Wynette’s
song, “Stand By Your Man.”
While I throw pennies
into a coin jar, Bear Stearns
gets a big bailout.
Unaware of her
beauty, unselfconsciousness
gives each movement grace.
Geeks transformed into
leading men stop hearts, but then
revert back next day.
Heating system dust -
particles of previous
occupants’ lives, selves.
Hats, gloves, put away
in optimism return
for winter’s last gasp.
Left in Manhattan
cab. Friends’ numbers, pix of my
kids in strangers’ hands.
Emily Bronte * labored quietly but I * scream “Here are my words!”
It’s said women swoon
at his rallies, yet his wife
once called him stinky.
Spring ahead and lose
an hour. What I could have done
in that length of time…
Flushing Meadows Park
once a site of hope. There, a
globe pledged future peace.
On a cluttered Queens
balcony he stands, watching
the complex decay.
Just over five months
This one four hundred fifty
Art or wasted time?
A haiku a day?
Not quite. Some days the tap runs,
some days it’s bone dry.
Mud has a smell that’s
like waking up to coffee.
You know you’re alive.
the constant dripping
nature’s tears of joy as she
sees her world reborn
The equinox means
equal night and day worldwide
yin and yang of light.
Days grow longer like
smiles that stretch wider as one
greets a long lost friend.
What’s that mean? That spring’s
a dominatrix, whipping
March ’til it submits?
Reclaiming the word,
she grabs the bitch by the horns
and makes us all proud.
for jem who says, “it’s your last lines that get me everytime.“
I’d like to think of
myself as the O. Henry
of the haiku form.
Secretive. Works for
the CIA. Won’t say where
it’s been for four years.
Like the extra hour
when we fall ahead, this one
day a trick in time.
Today J begins
flying not yet a driver
the sky’s the limit