A Wistful Friday Afternoon at the Haikulodeon

Here’s this week’s heap of haikus:
tanka haiku:

All one ever knows,
Is what they’ve experienced,
Or taken on faith.
But, like silt in riverbeds,
Both can muddy the waters.

They think they’ve won, but …
like the phoenix from ashes,
I shall rise again!

There’s a twilight time
between dusk and eve’ning that
nurtures reflection.

walking through the woods,
I find a weathered birdhouse,
nailed onto a tree.

the arc of each life,
pierces many hearts, which sews
tapestries of hope.

He says he will learn,
through obtuse introspection …
(This may take a while.)

Whispering biddies,
Sitting in their parlour chairs,
Can, sometimes be right.

Waltzing through life is
not as easy as it sounds …
There’s all that counting!

Whispering your name,
in my darkest moments, gives
me soothing solace.

A muse in a mews
may muse on what an awl weighs,
in all ways, always.

haiku quartet:

Another shooting.
Still more lives lost, more wounded.
Still too many guns.

Too many shooters
that should never own a gun,
can still get a gun.

Stop protecting the
guilty by hiding them ‘midst
all the innocent.

Americans own
way too many guns, (It’s true!)
Way too manty guns.

Weekends never end,
The beer’s free and sex sublime …
I know, in my dreams.

James Joyce had no choice,
baby wanders Nighttown and
cries, “Haiku-chee-ku.”

On the bus ride home,
he reached into his pocket,
and found her love note.

Fine fettles of fish,
fancily filleted, feed five …
flounders feast filling.

The worker began
rummaging through his tool-box,
looking for pliers.

blue serge suits haven’t
gotten better. The truth is,
they’ve gotten worsted.

Shuttered cottages.
Settled dust on empty chairs.
Light peeks through windows.

Chatting with strangers,
finding commonalities,
makes the world seem small.

An angel’s blessing,
cleanses souls and awakens
hearts to receive love.

Anguish and remorse
when embraced by solitude,
will shed bitter tears.

Waiting for the dawn,
I lie in somber darkness,
replaying the past.

To friends, be loyal,
to enemies, forgiving …
Siblings? Persevere.

She was of good faith
and she did all the right things,
still, she felt empty.

in his cubbyhole,
a writer pecks his keyboard …
inspiration strikes!

In a second mug,
he pours himself three fingers,
of ten year old scotch.

Open up your mind,
free your thoughts from tyranny.
let your dreams escape.

tanka haiku:

How do the living
deal with the dying, and not
get stuck in their realm?

It’s difficult, as we must
tread lightly ’round Life’s edges.

Whispering bridesmaids,
gossip ’bout the men at the
bachelor party.

Two little dogs rush
onto the elevator ….
then, … the door closes!

If you want the world
to be your oyster, it helps
to know how to shuck.

Waiting by the door,
a shy young girl fidgets with
her yellow wrist-band.

On a cloudy day
with intermittent rain, a
laugh may still break through.

Any given day,
swirling leaves will seem confused
by the winds of change.

double haiku:

He sees kids at play
and represses sadness at
not having children.

Sitting in the park,
he looks at ducks and swallows,
wishing he could fly.

A yellow balloon
dances in a cloud-less sky
and we’re all children.

Fridays, after work,
She really lets her hair down,
And dances till dawn.

tanka haiku:

Those that can not deal
with their friend’s adversities,
fear their own weakness.

    But smooth sailing weakens sailors
while stormy weather breeds strength.

When all around you
things are erupting, it helps
to take a long view.

(This past week in 79AD … Mt. Vesuvius erupted.)

Painting:  “Herculanum, August 23, year 79” by Hector Leroux (1881)

The Woman in Gold …
Those that admire, sometimes
conspire … (
‘Nuff said!’ )

Painting:  “The Woman in Gold”  – Gustav Klimt.

Do you spend your days
mopping up calamities?
or creating them?

Willows in the wind,
gently swaying back and forth,
like sleepy dancers.
Troubles never last …
Like cream poured into coffee,
They’ll soon swirl away.

tanka haiku:

My dog, Christopher,
a beagle of character,
Came when I was 5

   and left when I was 20.
We shared lots of adventures.

This past week included National Dog Day.  Christopher was an older beagle around the time this photo was taken. We got him as a puppy in 1955 and he lived until 1970. We were told his name was Goldie, but my sister and I decided to name him after St. Christopher. It turned out he was a pure-breed, so my dad, on a lark in 1955, went down to the AKC to register him. The American Kennel Club wouldn’t take his name as Christopher, however, because they thought it was too plain and easily confused with other dogs, so my dad registered him officially as “Happy Herman of Lostbrook”,   Lostbrook Road being the street in West Hartford that we lived on at the time.  Christopher was given to us by my mother’s godfather, who was an advertising executive in NYC for many years. He drove up from Florida with Christopher in the back seat of his Buick.  “Uncle Ed” knew Sherman Billingsley, who owned the Stork Club, and the story goes that Christopher was one of the puppies from a litter from one of Mr. Billingsley’s beagles.  The story also goes that Christopher was traumatized by someone in uniform when, as a puppy, he flew on an airplane.  That is supposedly why he barked at anyone in uniform; the mailman, the milk man or even my father’s brother, Brad, who was an Army Officer.  … but never mind that.  In the early years, we kept a box in the garage, as Christopher enjoyed roaming the neighborhood and returning with items swiped from the kids on the block like doll’s heads and rubber balls, etc. He also liked to eat pies that were cooling on window ledges. Other than that, he was a very good dog. When Christopher’s body began to fail, it came at the same time my father was fighting a losing battle with cancer. It was only a few months before he himself died that my dad had to take Christopher to the vet and have him put down. I was away at college at the time, so I could only imagine how tough that must have been for my dad. The house in this photo was the one that was cut into the side of a hill, and my dad built a kind of overhead zip line for Christopher. so he could get some exercise, but not run wild through the neighborhood.  I don’t know if you can see it in the photo or not, but he was tied to it when this photo was taken.


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