Haiku 1
Our silhouette still
Shapes carved in tarot cards
Reversed Strength, The Moon
And Imam and a Rabbi Walk in the Woods
אימאם ורב מטיילים ביער
إمام وحاخام يتجولان في الغابة
They don’t speak
Why should they
The trees shading
the trail care little
for what they may
say & no one
along their way
asks to see their
hands judging
who has redder
blood stains The
trees don’t judge
Flags of blue and
green are left be-
hind Just leaves
to fly in the soft
breeze displaying
but the colors of
fall They and
their dancing
branches make
the only sounds
No podcasters or
snapchatters or
youtubers or
tik tokkers to
pollute fresh air
Even the Torah
and Quran are
not here left
behind in shuls
and mosques
in the holy cities
their most pre-
sient points not
read just book-
marked for
another day
Inspired by the cover
of a High Holy Day
edition of the Pittsburgh
Jewish Chronicle pub-
lished many years ago.
I left before the dew fell.
I did not hear the goodbyes or witness the backclaps
or smile at the kindness of handshake hugs that come
after a long day of earnest, gentle celebration. I did not offer
any ‘you, be good now’ or ‘stay safe’ half-raised waves, but I
nodded well-wishes toward the booth folks and
the happy children and the hillside wild roses that bloom
whenever Heaven calls on them to lift…
lift their delicate modesty for all to see.
I drove home…carelessly…recklessly…free
around county curves, slowing only
to admire baled hay, abandoned porches, and the green,
overgrown wonder blanketing the mountains around me.
Then, the day was over, and like the others-
the dogs, the artists, the workers, I slept.
“A lifetime of cozy
When I say
What a beautiful sunrise or
This coffee is amazing, or when
I marvel at the striations
in the bedrock along I-75
or the webs of branches
over our heads at McConnell Springs,
or I say Let’s have pizza tonight
or Let’s read in silence or Let’s do
our taxes or Let’s go to the store
and crash carts into cracker displays,
what I mean is
I have dived head-first into you
and am floating in the fluorescent
electric endless fire you call your heart,
and if you asked me to leave I would,
but I would crumble into a line
of ash shaped like my signature because
there is no sunrise, no pizza, no bedrock
or branches or books that survive
without your breath, and what I would
very much rather do is disintegrate
in here, to dissolve into your neurons,
to defy all physics and open my chest
and welcome you to do the same.
[This is in my WIP collection — The Law of the Spirits: Lexington During Prohibition. A “blind pig” was an establishment for the illegal sale of alcohol, sometimes a business, sometimes a residence.]
Prohibited liquor seized by federal agents
Lexington Herald
The backdoor rattles with cops’ knocks;
our blind pig is exposed.
They come to seize our whiskey.
The predicament unfolds.
There must have been a sneaky snitch
who gleaned a fat reward.
How carefully we sold our booze,
a closely guarded horde.
I grab the bottles, toss the lids,
but find my sink still full.
I pour the whiskey in the froth –
so tragic to befoul.
The agents charge into our home,
they search throughout the house.
I foolishly leave the bottles out –
appalling to my spouse.
They search so hard for evidence,
but find no drops of drink
until the supervisor comes
upon the kitchen sink.
They cluster at my sudsy brew,
all sniffing like bloodhounds.
“It’s in the dirty water, Sam!”
and laughter sounds around.
