After a much too lengthy hiatus from the Waxy&Poetic blog, I’m back to continue with regular posts. Since I was AWOL during National Poetry Month, feast your eyes on the collected haiku that were daily posted on Twitter during April.

 

Until next week, enjoy!

 

*****

 

After one drink, I’m
honest with others. After
a few, with myself.

 

*

my original:

Au bord de la Seine:
bouteilles de rouge vides,
trop de lumières.

 

and my own translation:

On the banks of the
Seine: empty bottles of red
and too many lights.

 

*

I know for whom the
Bell tolls: Zack, Kelly, Jessie,
Screech, Slater, Belding.

Lisa discovers
her Twitter snub. She reaches
for the bathtub gin.

*

Absence of haikus
does not denote haikus of
absence, but silence.

*

in the pine box: one
hand-scribbled obit, Miles on
vinyl, one corkscrew.

*

Alone in bed and
smelling your pillow. My hand
feels nothing like you.

*

rope hanging above
the desk: dusty. noosed. strong. still.
long stretch, deed long done.

 

*

a tanka:

Elevation: six-
teen hundred nine meters. The
air’s thin and cool, but
not the reason I cannot
breathe. Denver. Pop. minus one.

 

*

Billets doux, sonnets—
stuffed to closet-box-bottom
for want of a match.

 

*

This is a test of
the emergency haiku
system. Don’t panic!

 

In event of real
poetic emergency:
Sound the Bard aloud.

 

In event of real
poetic emergency:
Eat that violin.

 

In event of real
poetic emergency:
Seek out Big Mamma.

 

In event of real
poetic emergency:
Mimic Whitman’s breath.

In event of real
poetic emergency:
Get hysterical.

In event of real
poetic emergency:
Starving minds should feed.

In event of real
poetic emergency:
yawp naked, tromp clothed.

 

In event of real
poetic emergency:
Risk absurdity.

In event of real
poetic emergency:
Address the reader.

In event of real
theatrical emergency:
Shatter the fourth wall.

In event of real
artistic emergency:
Collage with newsprint.

In event of real
poetic emergency:
Read Ferlinghetti.

 

*

[this is not my time]

America, present day

[this is not my place]

 

*

Mountains echo the
wailing; beached sands dry the tears.
Earth is unhappied.

 

*

I’ve cultivated
a discerning palate,
but no taste for your loss.

 

*

Democracy speaks:
Receive your voice when you make
fat contributions.

 

*
I’m not an object
of desire, just an object
not for collecting.

 

*

Hello. Hello. What
do you do for a living?
Read novels & dreams.

& you? What do you do?
Nothing so noble. I
rouse disappointment.

 

*

a final tanka:

 

sitting on bus bench
my eyes alert, Canon in
hand. Kid next to me asks
“What’s with the camera?”
“I write poems the hard way.”