A Star-Spangled Friday Afternoon at the Haikulodeon




Here’s this week’s patriotic heap of haikus:

4th of July-ku:  

The rockets’ red glare,
bombs bursting in air, gave proof
that fireworks are cool.

(3rd line re-write for the diphthong challenged:  “fireworks are cool.”)

 tanka haiku:

John Fluegel played fife,
Tobias Giltner fought in
The Revolution.
Here’s to our ancestors who
fought for our Independence.


At his wife’s urging,
He posed with her step-father.
Happy July 4th!

(Photo circa 1920.  My maternal grandfather and step-great-grandfather.)


A day at the beach
in those days, was more like a
wet pajama fest.

(My maternal grandparents are third and fourth from the left.)


On July 4th of
1903, two boys posed
for my Facebook page.

(My maternal grandfather is on the right)



 There was a time when
waving striped thing-a-ma-jigs
was quite a fun thing.


A burbling brook
slices through a lazy field
near a chestnut tree.


Hot dogs on the grill
burgers on the patio …
blame the clumsy chef.


 Double Diner-ku:

Eggs over easy
bacon, toast and home fries; on
some mis-matched china.

Men in overalls
listen to the farm report
an’ talk ’bout football.


Echoes of sunrise,
fade from the bluing sky; the
moon goes back to sleep.




As the dawn breaks, a
boat with peeling paint, drifts on
the shimmering lake.



My life is a mess,
but my imagination
is immaculate.




Shadows thrown upon
a brick wall by passing cars,
flee into doorways.




Double haiku:


Her heart wept when she
found some old love letters but
forgot who wrote them.

The letters revealed
the seeds of her broken heart,
and now, the harvest.



At the sky’s edges,
mountaintops still pierce the clouds,
to peek at heaven.




A crumpled fender,
wrapped around a barber’s pole,
could mean a close shave.




Don’t know her name, I’ll
never see her again … but,
her fragrance lingers.



Lazy sunlight drifts,
through the parted lace curtains,
of the drawing room.




He was bred in Rye,
creamed in Milk River, and laughed
at in Ho-Ho-Kus.





Will you ever wake?
Or will you dream forever?
Will you ever know?


On a Summer’s day,
an old jalopy sputters
down a dusty road.



Aggravating man,
infuriating woman;
Act Three, they’re in love.



Sucker punched by thugs,
smooched by dames, he fires his gat …
(Dreams in film noir.)




Quietly they slept,
in a field of bluebonnets;
his head in her lap.



He whispers her name,
as he lies in bed, hoping,
his dreams will find her.


In the morning light,
a sailboat on the Hudson,
moves as in a dream.



Coffee on the porch,
watching kids on bicycles
chased by barking dogs.

An unexpected
infatuation can help
mend a broken heart.


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