An Unindicted, Unendorsed Friday Afternoon at the Haikulodeon

 

Here’s this week’s heap of haikus:

 
There the old man sat,
sullen as deaf dogs in church,
eyeing his grand-kids.

 

 

 

 

 

Dogs lie lazily,
on a Summer’s afternoon,
too hot to chase birds.

 

 

 
Hiding in shadows,
waiting for the sun to set,
and the moon to rise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When we interact,
we acknowledge we are gears
in this God machine

 

 

 

 
A swarm of bees flit
about my head as I walk
through my neighbor’s yard.

 

 

 

 

 

Saunter through the woods
leaving all your cares behind
breathe in raw nature.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Moon behind the clouds,
dew forms on the meadow grass,
a whispered, “Goodnight!”

 

 


 

 

 
Having said his piece,
he waits for her reply, and
ponders the walk home.

 

 

 

 

 

Vacant apartment
Dust has settled everywhere.
Her spirit lingers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In a quiet place
where no-one else was allowed,
he wrestled with doubt.

 

 

 

 


 

 

Swirling rain pelts me.
I dash for shelter under
a leafy oak tree.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sun has risen,
The meadow’s long past the dew,
What’s keepin’ those cows?”

 

 

 

 
The persimmon tree,
bends just enough for me to
pluck some of its fruit.

 

 

 
Though fragile hearts need
whispered blessings, they also
need a steady hand.

 

 

double haiku:
This physical realm,
lets spiritual beings,
experience pain.

Live and you’ll know pain;
All lessons in Life derive
from this simple fact.

 

 

 

 

 
No one owns meaning
shades of interpretation
are rented, however.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Moody clouds roiled through
the dark sky o’er the harbor …
we gathered our things.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
As he sat and thought
of his impact on the world,
the roof fell on him.

 

 

 

 

The ocean so vast,
and the waves so persistent …
I’ll swim tomorrow.

(Photograph courtesy Kristina Rebelo.)

 

 

 

 



a triple stand-up haiku:

Seriously, folks …
two analysts in the hall …
at least in theory.

All kidding aside,
Two analysts in the hall …
Study each other.

(rimshot, cymbal crash.)

Thank you very much
I’m here until Tuesday, try
the lemon chicken.

 

 


And then, a rainbow
swept across the darkened sky,
for the storm had ended.

(Photo courtesy Kristina Rebelo)

 

 

 

 

 

Small town lament-ku:
 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?

 

 

 

 
Compassion for those
that never got sick … Old age
will be quite a shock.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mournful elegies
echoed through the cathedral
dear friend laid to rest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Noises in the hall;
My neighbor drops their keys, then
curses their fingers.

 

 


 

 

Sometimes, the truth hurts.
Of course, truth be known, lying
can hurt just as much.

 

 



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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
Something-I-saw-today-ku:

 

An old woman with
green hair … how is it her youth
never acquiesced?

 

 

 

 

 

 
A man on a bike
carelessly rides through the park
wearing suspenders.

 

 


 

 


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

 

 

 

 

If you think Sinning
takes more work than being Good …
You’ve never been Good.

 

 


 

 

 

A convivial
conveyance of convenience …
convertible coupe.

 

 

 


 

 

tanka haiku:

 

The old weathered barn
still advertises Mail Pouch
chewing tobacco.

Irony? The old farmer
still dead – cancer of the gums.

 

 

 

 

Comfy and cozy
and wrapped in a patchwork quilt,
she sipped some hot soup.

 

 

 


 

 

Now is not the time?!
Now is ALWAYS the time!!
It’s the tense we’re stuck in.

 

 



 


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

 

 

 

 

I feel so alone.
I watch the tide come in and
think of yesterday.

(Photograph courtesy of Kristina Rebelo)

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

The way of the world-ku:
Aggravating man,
infuriating woman;
Act Three, they’re in love.

 

 

 

 
After the downpour,
the neon lights of Broadway
shimmered in puddles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sucker punched by thugs …
smooched by dames … he fires his gat …
(He thinks he’s Sam Spade.’)

 

 
Most Ala-Kazam,
Abra-Cadabra spells seem
to lack real magic.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 


The billowing sails,
The churning, white-capped waters,
grey skies at ebb tide.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
There’s just Black or White
in a world of absolutes …
and thus, no rainbows.

 

 

The deepening blue
gently quiets golden waves.
Nightfall approaches.

 

(Photograph courtesy of Kristina Rebelo)

 

 

****

 

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