Haiku-A-Day

the lone poet taps

haiku on his phone — nearby,

Storke Tower chimes eight

the pregnant full moon

casts silvery anti-shadows

on leaf-strewn pavement

with the first raindrop

the gathered throngs

scurry for cover

a full house:

everywhere toes to be stepped on

and shoulders to hug

Happy Turkey Day!  I’m taking the day off to hang out with my family.  More haiku to come tomorrow.

gazing up, a great

white orb and halo dominate

the indigo sky

early morning and

the world smells richly of

wet leaves and coffee

lying awake,

parched throat, coyotes chattering

outside the window

just above the
horizon, the moon floats like a
yellow banana

staring through the
camera lens — drowning in
kaleidoscope eyes

days grow shorter as
crisp, new piles of red and brown
clutter the walkway

the stars glisten like
a million white pinpricks in
an obsidian sky

in the blackest night,

wind gusts in the quiet

of the crossroads

standing in line at

the grocery store — overhead,

The Doors’ “People Are Strange”

final adjustments

made — enjoying the satisfying

glow of completion

concentric twisting

bold and nut.  Tight — just

a quarter turn more

riffling through a

box of sockets: talismans

of precision

squinting at tiny

solder points, metallic fumes

sting my nostrils

little brown thrush sits

amongst the red paper flowers,

unbothered by thorns

the temperature
drops and the breeze picks up,
smelling of rain

the air is quiet,
just a few small cheeps in the trees –
under an iron sky

nodding off

at my desk –

empty house

cold west wind — above,

brown and black mottled sky and

a handful of stray stars

waiting for my

coffee, staring blankly at the

scarred wood tabletop

swirls of white and tan

foam suspended atop blessed

bean nirvana

stepping out of the

front door — welcoming crispness

and violet clouds

you lie in bed

novel in hand, sleepy

face next to mine

cold, deep fog

clings to the lampposts –

damp silence

glaring sun –
in the distance,
a fog horn lows

five in the morning,

seven at night — the rasp of

bristles on concrete