A Flustered Friday Afternoon at the Haikulodeon




Here’s this week’s heap of haikus:



In our memories
Scout and Atticus … and Boo
shall live forever.


Harper Lee – RIP



Waiting patiently …
for bad news that never comes
is called, taking naps.




After a long drought,
Well-water brought swallows back,
To Capistrano.







tanka haiku:
Not at all pretty
that smart march passing through, but …
it has a nice beat.

     Can one know oneself?
Is the knowing in doing?






Download all updates.
For what we know’s elusive
and can rarely be pinned down.






Docile delinquents,
doing downers daily, don’t
despair dumb details.









The light from my room
spills onto a snowy roof,
Icy shadows flee.







The dog sniffs his food,
warily approaching it,
Fussy as a cat.






( Subway, 1966. Photo by Danny Lyon.)





Her face obscured by
scarves, a woman rushes by
clutching her Latte.







Tulips in the field
chase away receding snow
clearing paths for Spring








A wise old man sat
amidst the rubble and smiled
at all he had learned.






What he might have done,
is nowhere near what she had





“Okay, let’s begin.
Insertez-vous tab A?!  Damn!
The plans are in FRENCH!”












In a wicker chair
by the sea shore, sits a young
temptress dressed in blue.










Lit by sunlight, a
glowing landscape made out of
bits of colored glass.


(  Happy would-have-been 168th birthday to Louis Comfort Tiffany. )







When my mind escapes
from thoughts that weigh it down, it
soars above the clouds.






As the dusk draws nigh
chickens roost and dogs bark at
approaching shadows.






A Winter’s kindness.
Kindling gathered, I light
small fires of hope.







Scribbled reminders
that I now can’t decipher …
I just have to laugh.






She placed a flower,
neatly behind her left ear …
then, she danced for him.






Oh, what would I do
if you were not here with me?
Who would hold my hand?







Happiness is not
a station you arrive at,
it’s the train you’re on.






A tangle of trees
may clutter the morning sky
but happily so.






If you only stand
facing West, than nothing will
ever dawn on you.






The 9:07
arrives on track 3 on time
headed to Versailles


(“Saint-Lazare Station” by Claude Monet )







tanka haiku:


When our old dog died,
There was no reason for us
to keep his chew toys.

But we did. And even now
they lie on the floor … hoping.


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.




double haiku:


Eternity is
a wish not to die made real.
A hope we can’t prove.

Of course, it’s also
dining out with your in-laws
and waiting for news.





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









In front of the bank,
a man asks for spare change, while
dogs bark noisily.






The boy was upset
’bout a hole in his pocket …
now his ‘stuff’ is gone!







Scheming violets
tumble o’er the garden’s edge
in search of their roots.








Hidden in boxes
were a flood of love notes, which
explained ev’rything.






Her calico cat
has all sorts of adventures
while she is at work.





In the far corner
of my garden, near the fence,
purple asters bloom.




Raking in the chips,
he noticed the six of clubs,
lying on the floor.





Bonus Poem:


This week, Facebook reminded me that I wrote this in 2012.  I had forgotten.


 A poem for Emily –


I’m adrift in damp depression
over moonbeams which don’t shine for me
each darkened night, my porch swing’s empty
and no-one sips my tea but me.

Gloom is an amber shadow,
which hides behind each flirting tree
and yet … in spite of all misgivings,
my violets still await the Spring.

And so, I can not help but wonder …
and while I’m wondering, I sing.

Now, I know my voice has gotten raspy
and my memory’s lost a thought or two,
but what I feel has sailed the oceans
and wrestled dragons (more than a few.).
my feelings scaled enormous mountains,
and engaged in many a daring fling

Still, I can not help but wonder
and while I’m wondering, I sing.

Hope, my friend, has perplexed many,
Emily says it’s a feathered thing,
But whether you’ve got much or you haven’t any,
my violets still await the Spring.


 ( Michael Tracy Smith – c 2012 )





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2 Responses to A Flustered Friday Afternoon at the Haikulodeon

  1. trkingmomoe says:

    Enjoyed this like always.

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