Poetry

Haiku 52

Photo: Andrew Hamlin. CC-BY.

March,
forgiven sins at last…
a roast beef sandwich

At my death…
will even the wasted time
comfort me?

He speaks to me
in the dreams I don’t have
until summer

The Air Force man
holds a sapling, two feet
from the root ball

Thick thud,
the cooper’s mallet–
so much sleet!

March…
big fish in small bowl
eyes the thunderstorm

Where do you call home?
queries bluebird
from her upraised branch

March…
drums like a dropped tire iron–
gravel crunch

Late March…
thunderclaps, quite like
a shoving match

Late March…
drowsy train driver thinks
in long words

Late March:
wind on my shaved neck…
stalled bus

March…
The harlequin eludes me
south past the bank

The madwoman…
will she cross the street?
(She gets on my bus)

She won’t be vaccinated…
all I can do
is watch the birds

The sultan in his palace
if he strains a bit
hears the cricket

March…
the raven strains its neck
for half an apple

March…
effervescence of the dew
and a jackhammer

Angel whispers…
the night breeze,
sweeping up leaves

March…
cargo barge off downtown
dwarfs the ferry

And one day,
masks stacked cupboard…
thick dust