A Warm, Yet Wintry Friday Afternoon at the Haikulodeon

 

Here’s this week’s heap of haikus: 

 

 

double haiku:

To avoid what is
unknown is to stop asking
questions.  Keep learning.

Life is a question
Our quest for knowing is the
path on which we walk

 

 

 

 

 
What are you in for?
Involuntary haiku …
Ahh, forced perspective.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Like small magicians,
words wield power creating
subtle illusions.

 

 

 

 

Truth-in-advertising-ku:

Evidently, in
seventeen ninety three, this
was an ad for sex.

 

 

 

 

 

After the Great War,
we would go to Union Square
and lean on fences.

 

 

 

 

 
Suddenly you’re back,
a silly grin on your face …
in my arms once more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
Fog on the shore road.
A man on a bicycle
appears lost in thought.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Lower East Side
where immigrants remember
a new broom sweeps clean.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

(Photo courtesy Kristina Rebelo)
 

 


 

 

 

 

 

Stocking one’s larder
is getting harder.  Prices
from Grocers, grosser.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eager little boys
who dream of adventures will
keep climbing fences.

 

(Photo circa 1952 – A young MrSmith1 climbing over the fence.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes images
photo-shopped for Facebook will
simply make you smile.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In their living room,
a conversation started
in jest, ends sadly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In a quiet room.
a book lies open on a
mahogany desk.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Societal ills;
Do you blame those above or
those that are below?

 

 

 

 

 

 

An old weathered rope,
hangs ’round a lonely fence-post.
Purpose forgotten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Words had no effect,
so, reluctantly, he tried
throwing sticks and stones.

 

 

 

 

 

 
Mom’s gold charm bracelet,
clanged against the banister,
as she climbed the stairs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Windows to our souls?
Eyes may behold the world, but
Minds create vision.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Subtle shades of blue,
but when in a purple haze,
outcome indigo.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He buried his fear
in the pleats of his mom’s skirt.
( … wiped his nose there too.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poor Aunt Hannah went
to her grave not knowing she
was a palindrome.

 

 

 

 

 


A mountain village
near the bend in the river
details are sketchy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

tanka haiku:

A murder of crows,
An exultation of larks,
a leap of leopards

and gaggles of geese all know
it’s a congress of baboons.

 

 

 

 

 –

(Me on the left as Snogg the Gypsy in a 1971 Children’s Theater production of The Red Shoes.    Having seen the film in high school, I thought it was going to be a bit too much for the younger kids, but they seemed to like it.   Go figure.  )

 

 

 

 

Bonus material:  From Spondyville Historian, Marie Strumpell on the Christmas season: 

 

“Christmas was always a joyous time. The hearth was warmed by a crackling fire scented with pine needles. The glittering evergreen tree stood proudly in one corner of the parlor. its delicate ornaments seemed to radiate with joy, while my kitten, Flossie, enjoyed playfully batting about a shimmering silver icicle which hung from one of the lower branches. Peppermint candy canes hidden amongst the decorations were always a treat for the children and mother made sure that any Carolers that stopped by were rewarded with nutmeg topped egg nog and a bit of plum pudding. The windows with their bayberry candles, let the warmth and cheeriness of the parlor spill out into the snow-covered yard for all to see.  It was during that time, that all seemed well with everything and everyone.  At Xmas, everyone’s pain was forgotten, all their troubles minimalized, their feuds mended. Neighbors forgot old grudges and everyone opened their hearts and succumbed to the gentle magic of the season.  Spondyville was always the most beautiful and peaceful place on Christmas … just as it is, in my heart, all the rest of the year …”

(c) 1957 ‘The Early Days of Spondyville’ by Marie Strumpell

 

****

Next Week:  The holiday classic, Christmas with the Condiments

 

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