April 2017—National Poetry Month

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


leaps past the clock into night
I’ve lost my morning

Screen Shot 2017-04-21 at 11.41.45 PM

I hear the clock tick
louder in the silent room—
I quieten my heart

clock sm

haikus are lines with
seventeen syllables—bent-
back measuring sticks

ruler sm

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

birds sm

tired eyes pop like
Slinkys—their helical springs
unfurl rods and cones


the evening glow spreads thick,
like marmalade on toast—
bittersweet memories



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



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


Folks wait in lines to
treat mom to lunch—if mom cooked
they’d be done by now