haiku #5
Every morning I
make coffee, microwave oats.
First, snooze, try to dream.
weathered mountain hip
flat backside draw
pendulous breasts
spurs off the ridgeline
my flesh slipping
to a new terrain
has accelerated
I like to imagine
my mind remains
a smooth firmament
But there are cracks therein,
craggy caves and cliffs –
I might walk off the edge
of a memory
Maybe the Moon sits high above the water
And makes the Tide its slave.
Ripping the Tide from the shore
Just to force its nose into the sand.
Maybe the Moon and the Tide are lovers
Forced apart by the cruelty of distance.
The Moon beckons the water
And the Tide reaches for the stars.
Maybe the Moon ran from the Tide
And now the Tide pushes against the door of space
Insists that the Moon can’t hide forever
As the Moon tries to hide behind the clouds
Maybe the Moon years for a love
That will warm its frozen heart
And the Tide yearns for something out of this world
But destiny and desire are stubborn sisters.
Or maybe the Moon and the Tide
Are simply just that.
The only thing that keeps them together
The only thing that keeps them separate
Is Gravity.
Irrational frame
repetitive sedative
again c’est la vie
Monochromatic
retrogressive progressive
beyond noir et blanc
Somnambulist soul
iridescent depressant
again c’est la vie
Existentialist
expressionistic mystic
beyond noir et blanc
pen-touched paper
should burst with words
that tie-dye my page
in cerise suns
inch-worm whorls
cerulean loops
with a pinch
of sobering ochre
inescapable bittersweet
but sometimes
pen leaves only a blot
of ravenous darkness
I see the white underside
of a hawk
as it flies over our car.
I lean forward
the air conditioning blasting me
from the vents in the dash
and follow it
the length of the windshield
but no one else sees it.
I’ve seen hawks my whole life
when no one else did.
A friend’s mom
who was a spiritual old woman
said to pay attention
to what I’d been thinking
when I saw it
and to ask its spirit
for guidance.
My anxiety traps me
inside moments I can’t control.
Gale-force winds of dread blasting me
from work and emails and writing
and family and parenting
and living.
I can’t help but follow
this wind stream of this consciousness
as if my life depends on it.
I’d been thinking of the past
when that hawk flew over our car.
I asked its spirit
how to move on.
lately i been daydreaming
while i ought to be doing dishes.
i’ll catch myself, delicate double chin
in the callused cup of my hand
staring out the kitchen window
at my best blackberry brier
with longing lingering in my eyes.
it’s hanging full and heavy
but the fruit is far from ripe.
blood red berries against green grass.
blood red berries against the washed-out
siding of our second hand mobile home.
and i’m not even worried
‘bout the sun soaked sweetness
baked into a pie anyways.
i’m wondering how long it might take
to grow myself a good set of thorns.
Crying is part of my writing process
Questions are part of religion
Teachers are angels but not necessarily angelic
Children are prayers of love and hope
Friends can send messages encrypted by eyebrows
Ringing telephones represent a circle of hell
Stories are magic even the third time around
Salty snacks are better
My body is my own
Dogs are gifts to the world
Music should send shivers down your spine
Hearts can meet across space and time
Loneliness can happen in a crowd
Protests are part of patriotism
Buying ink cartridges in a combo pack leads to heartache
More cheese is always better
Together we can do better
All things are possible but not for me
Depression is gratifying
and I
am a glutton.
Serve me up a dish of that fine platter,
I will wallow,
I will shatter.
