A Somewhat Steamy Friday Afternoon at the Haikulodeon

Here’s this week’s heap of haikus:

tanka haiku for 9/11 –

I pass Ground Zero
often on my way to work.
I can not forget.
The scar has still not healed.  Life
has not returned to ‘normal.’

(This Image for 9/11 courtesy of my friend, Jennifer Dye Visscher’s Art Apple a Day Project to raise AS Awareness.)

We will read ‘the names’
as long as it matters. It
will always matter.


… then the buildings fell;
our world decimated … but …
heroes would emerge.

9/11 – tanka haiku + haiku

‘Dear Lord, what’s happened?!’
Shocking. Unbelievable.
Even now, we weep.
For we sat and watched evil,
attempt to kill our spirit.


But we shall resist,
We will not yield, nor forget,
And we will survive.

Electronic tones
manufacture melodies.
Inhumane practice?

(Cindy Electronium 1959 – by Raymond Scott)

=


Autumn in New York,
leaves crackle underfoot as
I stroll through the park.


A sleeping dog guards
the pumpkin harvest while the
leaves drift from the trees.

 



Sad when Summer ends,
and the school year starts anew …
Said no mom ever.

Though she pined for him,
she could not find a way to
gracefully forgive.




Clouds surround mountains,
evergreens anchor the slopes,
temple bells echo.


Autumn arrives with
colorful foliage and
orchards to harvest.

He sits quietly
on a stool in a diner
and stares at his soup.


Silent surrender;
she flops onto the sofa
and turns on TV.



I gave you my heart.
Tuck it in your shirtwaist and
gaze at it often


I gave you my heart …
and now my blood is pooling.
Form follows function.


And so, moving on,
he gave up all his comforts,
to find a new path.


 
As I fall asleep,
whispers of memories drift
through my consciousness …


tanka haiku:

She found some paper,
then opened her crayon box
and began to draw.
She scribbled wildly, then
triumphantly, signed her name.


Down a garden path,
that leads to a wooden bench,
I find solitude.


 Then she placed her hand,
gently on his shoulder, and
he broke down and sobbed.


Dropping jaws amongst
the mystified spectators,
told him the trick worked.

She seldom complained,
was quick with a comeback, so…
was taken lightly.


 No one is pristine
by the time they reach sixty
Life does take a toll.


 Solid evidence
of who and what we once were
will get lost in Time.


 If you twist my arm …
then my shoulder will pop out …
so please … don’t do that.


You must keep in mind;
to deteriorate is
the way of all things.

double haiku:

It’s three fifteen, and
wakened from a sad dream, I
try to clear my head.

Thoughts of you linger
and entwine with my day’s chores.
You still haunt my heart.



You can malinger
or even procrastinate …
long as it gets done.

Leaves swirled around her,
tumbling in her wake like
fawning sycophants.

Reaching for the moon
Is an admirable goal.
Having patience helps.

(Photograph courtesy Kristina Rebelo)

We drove through the night
to see the fall foliage
mirrored in the lake.

Through an iron fence,
I watch autumn leaves fall on
empty park benches.

Lying in the sun’s
the universal sign of
complete contentment.


The teacher threw a
book at the sleeping pupil.
Knowledge can hurt you.

A quintet of haikus:

Under a pale sky,
a man in a hat, sits and
reads his newspaper.

As the daylight ebbs,
the man folds the newspaper,
gets up, and goes home.

In the dark of night,
he lies in bed and ponders
all that he has read …

When he awakes, he
gets up, finds his hat and grabs
a new newspaper.

The mind’s the engine,
that drives our train of thought. We
must keep feeding it.


He hikes his socks up,
she pulls his pants down… In Life,
things will even out.

Sucker-punched by thugs,
smooched by dames, he fired his gat …
(He dreams in film noir.)

There are times when no
words will suffice, we just need
to look at flowers.


tanka haiku:

We fight our whole lives
to thrive in the world of our
parents, only to

discover that we’re living
in the world of our children.


Autumn in New York,
leaves crackle underfoot as
I stroll through the park.


Moon behind the clouds,
fields aglow in bluish light,
small foxes prowl.

 Inside his wallet
was a lonely place to live,
Single sawbuck sighs.


In between the lines,
she’d written stage directions.
Smart understudy.


Hark! A noise yonder
echoes through the dark of night
Gather the horses!


The usual flow
receives the usual ebb …
The moon rules the tides.


Many a great man
has been brought low by the smell
of baby powder.


double haiku:

Mom made lemonade
Dad worked on the truck, and I
held the monkey wrench.

When we took a break
we listened to the ballgame,
Mom made sandwiches.


Behind a closed door,
underneath the sheets, they tried

to come together.


Cunning conundrums,
thoroughly mixed metaphors …
twisted conclusions.


The dark before dawn;
lonely hearts beat quicker in
anticipation.



The sober mirror
flaunts my discrepancies and
glues them in my brain.

Slightly Risque-ku:

When a pencil’s shoved
in your testicles, you’ll yell,
“TICONDEROGA!!”

Your ‘precious time’s’ not
worth the luminous dial
that it’s painted on.


Serial writers
will find it easier to
use the Alpha-Bits.


Psychedelic 60’s-ku:
While the Patchouli
smoldered in his filthy room,
his mom got incensed.

When you’re old enough
to stand upon a chair, it’s
time to take a seat.

(A young MrSmith1  in 1951.)

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