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.”
Waxy & Poetic 