contractions adjust each feather;

jealousy and awe

charring carbon wakes me,

no sirens… back to sleep

forks, orange chicken; chatting under

neon panda gaze

to decipher the white glow –

time to walk away

as the sky goes dark:  i love

just before it rains

silhouettes cruise the coastal skies –

rain in the mountains

adds new meaning to

“the male gaze”

the weight of millions of words –

a few more can’t hurt.

photos of naked people,

looking for good poses

moon peeks through

cypress boughs

ivory curve; should be asleep

but can’t help gazing

sun and scene — little kids in

paper masks run by

thrash about as sideways rain

pummels the windows

down the spouts, rushing like

a waterfall

raccoon rummages for scraps

behind the dumpster.

the soothing staccato

of sudden rain

indistinct — across the water,

the fog horn bellows

beach — a tiny hawk perched on

a no-parking sign

shut, daggers in my temples…

bargaining for sunset…

cars soothes like irregular

crashing waves

bringing sweet hints of fennel

and eucalyptus

the tiny pops of bursting beech

fruit under orion

between drawn drapes, briefly piercing

my afternoon gloom

the plovers: poking in the sand,

looking for jujus

the sun worshippers lie prostrate

on sandy towels

above the sand, drawing

on my ankles

way:  to the right, two turkeys

by the railroad tracks

above, and your head dozing

on my shoulder

the water, the islands sit, a scribble

on the horizon

bright blue sky, rising over terraced,

palm-topped hills

through the pine boughs bathed in

silver-blue moonlight

a maelstrom of grey flecks

on a white background

sit side-by-side — snow builds up

on the window sill

tissue paper:  pure, unrefined

contentment

table, surrounded by laughter

and sugar cookies

wind, branches encapsulated

in frozen time

treading gingerly

up the driveway

Chicago — shortest day

of the year

burn between wire/plastic branches,

welcoming the sun

as someone’s dog frolics

in the white powder

to fall in time with recorded

piano flurries

shatters the snow-damp

silence

as the world outside

turns white and grey

cold, and old, red hawk eyes

the white for movement

steals through the cracks in the

sliding glass door

book in hand — cold radiates

from frosted windows

rooftop — hard to keep my

eyes open

streetlight, red leaves flare

beneath the black sky

to the gentle sound of

your breath next to me

pen scratching:  two word weavers

creating worlds by hand

spices wafts from the kitchen –

smells like home

degrees — above, black cloud banks

crest the mountain tops

is thick with smells of

respite, home, and beans

a cold, yellow mist rises

from the sands

blue sky — thundercrash

and a salty spray

haiku on his phone — nearby,

Storke Tower chimes eight

casts silvery anti-shadows

on leaf-strewn pavement

the gathered throngs

scurry for cover

everywhere toes to be stepped on

and shoulders to hug

white orb and halo dominate

the indigo sky

the world smells richly of

wet leaves and coffee

parched throat, coyotes chattering

outside the window

wind gusts in the quiet

of the crossroads

the grocery store — overhead,

The Doors’ “People Are Strange”

made — enjoying the satisfying

glow of completion

bold and nut.  Tight — just

a quarter turn more

box of sockets: talismans

of precision

solder points, metallic fumes

sting my nostrils

amongst the red paper flowers,

unbothered by thorns

at my desk –

empty house

brown and black mottled sky and

a handful of stray stars

]]> http://www.matthewbendert.com/haiku-a-day/2009/11/08/autumn-night-haiku/feed/ 0 http://www.matthewbendert.com/haiku-a-day/2009/11/07/coffeehouse-haiku/ http://www.matthewbendert.com/haiku-a-day/2009/11/07/coffeehouse-haiku/#comments Sun, 08 Nov 2009 03:02:58 +0000 Matthew Bendert http://www.matthewbendert.com/haiku-a-day/?p=116 waiting for my

coffee, staring blankly at the

scarred wood tabletop

foam suspended atop blessed

bean nirvana

front door — welcoming crispness

and violet clouds

novel in hand, sleepy

face next to mine

clings to the lampposts –

damp silence

seven at night — the rasp of

bristles on concrete

flicker on porchsteps: helping the

spirits find their way

grinning orange totems with

little candle souls

struggle to find a reason

to get out of bed

and breath — beneath the blackness

a million colors

great white cameras stare with

omnipresent eyes

the car to wake up –  a low

grumbling machine yawn

dozens of con trails etch the

cerulean sky