Fall Haiku

By the sea, hillsides
Dotted with paper lanterns
Glowing deep orange.

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Lilting of Kildare, Cork or Kilarney, 
She says to lie oh so still oh; 
(still as death, glad as a babe, o lucky me) 
Hugs my face to her bosom tightly 
As she drags a sensor firm and slow 
Across my chest to sound and chart 
A derelict heart full fathom five below. 

Even my mother’s tired sighs 
Can be heard down there still, 
As she grudges a life to her son; 
No, there are no lullabies; 
A child herself, she never sang. 

Now, all I desire is this Irish rose to sing — 
By the Rising of the Moon, O Danny Boy, 
Cole Porter, an ad jingle, any damned thing! 
Your smile, your voice could forever cure this heart 
but as you leave, I can only say, “Erin go bragh.” 

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Winter Haiku

On a hoarfrost night
Dark houses along the tracks
One window bears light.

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They lean and stretch out of long 
narrow windows never meant to open;
into the morning they reach out
as if hanging wash or gossiping
floor to floor with neighbors or
watching for parades of victory
to cheer above and throw confetti.

Some will stay but most will go;
pirouette, tumble or jack knife
joining hands or just solo,
dive into this sweet coolness
of summer turning fall.

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Yard Sale

I sold my Sunbeam Rapier
The stubby little convertible
I’ve had since nineteen sixty
Something and an orgasm lamp
And Fillmore posters
Records of all sorts…
What else can you do
With cats to support?

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Working at Home

Window installers tear out
Old window frames with ganas
And the whole day they do that
I’m on a sofa wooing electrons 
On the cybernetic mist.
Their work is warranted for years.
Mine vanishes before it exists.

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My Youngest, My Sweetest

My posse lost your tracks in the Sadlands
We could not pursue you through mirrors
And ever diminishing doors you slammed.

All I dream of is rushing, arms out wide,
Across a playground to catch you at the bottom
Of a tall crooked slide I just looked away from.

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Once we circled each other,
You and I, a double star
Attracting comets and moons
And lesser planets.

Now, we do not share gravity.
Our orbits go in other spheres
Rich in new worlds, new suns
Blooming from the old amity.

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If my aunt had her wishes
My cats would dust her home
Wash the car she never drives
Do her dishes and polish silver
She hasn’t used since 1965.

My kits thank me for taking
All the flak, “Just keep that old
Slave driver off our backs!”

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The Jet Set

Originally posted on redgladiola:

Swallow in Flight

Tree Swallow banking
through a rush of windy current
nature’s blue chrome jet

View original

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