Summer Haiku
suspended ivy
spills over onto white brick
fiery lillies sprout
(inspired by the “Every Monday” exercise in Natalie Goldberg’s “Writing Down the Bones”)
I am a friend to
every fridge cleaned and in need of cleaning,
every hour, every day of the week, every month,
(word nerds, curd nerds, out-the-boxers), named with all their deific power
I am a friend to
constellations and galaxies: sub/cultures
astrologers and artists: white (noise) space
writers and intuitives: between the lines
crystal and coin collectors: chrono/logic
Once a time I was a friend to
outcasts on principle: This no longer stands.
I am a friend to
role players and cosplayers
musicians and makers
dreamers of dreams
planners and historians
lifecoaches and chefs
Once a time I was a friend to
anyone, at first:
but we all only have so wide of a good side.
I am a friend to
those on the grind and those off grid
campers and hikers and timekeepers
rope jumpers and homeschoolers
farmers, folklorists, librarians, teachers
plant tenders and poem crafters
Once was a time I made too many exceptions.
I am a friend to
the pots and pans and roads that lead to Castlewood Canyon
the Rocky Mountains and aspen, the blue spruce, the bur oak, and the arboretums
thrift stores and friends to go along, art galleries at home and formal, and clever messes and clever organization
Appalachia and the shady understory of every lucky trail and hardy forest
red rocks and waterfalls and myself and the shores I’ll come to know– the water nymphs therein — each footprint that can not long stand
Wind tossed her long blond hair
as she walked uphill toward the overpass.
When I drove even with her,
she stopped and tried to look like she was
not going to the lake.
In this poem,
I beg to differ with her.
Black straps above her strapless top
and the bottom of her white short
shorts, exposing her skin tight
one piece suit,
made me want to be carefree again.
She was,
in this poet’s summation,
better suited
for a two-piece bikini
on a blanket near a beach
far removed from Dale Hollow Lake.
Can one only be great
Marley stalked a fly
The fly flew
Marley caught the fly
The fly played possum
Marley relaxed
The fly flew away
Still she hunts
Guess she said something
Splinter remover
scraped knee doctor
bird feeder builder
gazebo constructor
experimenter
how-to-swim teacher
bad mood chaser
Sunday road trip ready.
Household Jack of All Trades
with cameras ready for anything.
Read bedtime stories
like James Earl Jones.
Could fix anything
and sing like Bing.
-Sue Neufarth Howard
Like a problematic friend, clueless, infinitely
forgiven, from whom I earn the gift of close
containment, thin walls.
Like a precocious child too often set aside
despite your perfunctory need for my touch
Like a desert, home of myth
and wonders, long avoided; embracing
the hard dry thirst, seeking
delirium in your unremitting glare
I learn who I am
not.
Absent shadow, words you forgot
or never knew
corners avoided and erased, I collect
to reconfigure
what is in your too-close breath
a whiff of missed understanding, refusing
to name itself
My love for you is basic
and acid, corrosive – burning off what good
remains of me.
