To celebrate April—National Poetry Month,
I started posting one Haiku a day on Twitter
and Facebook. I didn’t get started right away
because of other commitments. I’ve reposted
them here, since some of my friends are not
on Social Media. Feel free to comment.
April, come she will…
When streams are ripe
and swelled with rain…
A burst of poppies reappear—
a splash of gold and green
yellow cups of sunshine
palms upturned offering
petals of peace and poems
for our troubled world…
Celebrating National Poetry Month, April 2017
walking a thin line
between what’s big and BIG—note:
the word BIG is small
Imagination
leaps past the clock into night
I’ve lost my morning
I hear the clock tick
louder in the silent room—
I quieten my heart
haikus are lines with
seventeen syllables—bent-
back measuring sticks
morning starts alone—
days feel like old luggage, now x
too heavy to drag
words falling like spit
on hot concrete, dissipate—
like nothing was said
grass shoots up—as high
as weed. I inhale—Ah! Sweet,
the smell of drizzle.
birds on high wire
tweet on air, sharing posts—they’re
birds of a feather
tired eyes pop like
Slinkys—their helical springs
unfurl rods and cones
the evening glow spreads thick,
like marmalade on toast—
bittersweet memories
TAXMAN
taxiing through taxes
plowing through the pile—toiling
roiling, plowed under
haikus—like bells, are
sweet little chimes that tinkle
and linger awhile
posting little notes—
like offering votive lights
to appease the night
EPICURIOUS?
if yeast is yeast, and
Best is Best—never will egg
‘n’ mayo be rice
yet a dance, though no
movement, rhythmic heartbeat
vibrations abound
trying to write at night
I’ve lost more pens, than ideas
in folds of the quilt
music from the flute
as it trips and meanders
through large empty caves
money is not love. love
is what I thought I had. now,
money’s all I want
how very sleek is
the emerging Monarch now,
then ah! the brilliance!
life has a way of
putting us in tight corners . . .
helps expand our minds
for years his book graced
my shelf—chanced to read last week
he died yesterday
ink blots and shadows
have one thing in common—they
throw you for a loop
garbage trucks rumble
sirens claw their way through traffic
ah,Thursday morning!
dreams that wake you up,
only remind you’re asleep,
not dead—your first pass
unlike these chalk marks
carved in stone, your words with me
I have paraphrased
last cup of tea as
bedtime nears, something’s afloat—
tip of a teabag
MOTHER’S DAY
Folks wait in lines to
treat mom to lunch—if mom cooked
they’d be done by now
pushpa macfarlane 