I know I promised a haiku every Sunday. However, while I was outside with my horse, Rosie, this kept running through my mind:
Leading Rosie by her mane
no halter, no lead rope, nothing
clicking my tongue, encouraging
Rosie’s such a good girl!
poetry
Sunday Haiku
Blackfoot daisies, corydalis grace green pastures
springtime wonders
tiny blossoms of joy winking at an azure sky.
Blank, white paper
Blank, white paper
stares at me,
sitting here eating a
left over Subway sandwich,
reading Sky Bridge by
Laura Pritchett,
avoiding my writing commitment.
This book surprises me,
makes me think of my students,
some poor, trailer housed,
gun toting, hard scrabble,
simultaneously smart and ignorant.
Their idea of rich includes
any house over 2000 square feet,
stylish, elegant clothes, land.
My brain swirls thoughts, images:
What can it all mean, this life?
Joy, a hurting beauty?
Looking out the windows,
listening to the West Texas wind,
I ask myself again:
What can it all mean?
Teaching
Three students mad at other students:
in stream-of-conscious essay one
tells me,
“I want to punch ___T____ and ___J_____ in the face.”
Two others allude, avoid the overt.
I must “fix” this for them.
Senioritis.
Change
“If you want the present to be different from the past, study the past.” Spinoza
Christians went to the Holy Land
to claim it back. Crusades.
Moslems fought Moslems
Sunni against Shia
Sufis outcast or revered
Hafiz, Rumi
No middle ground
No compromise
Centuries gone
New technology
the only change.
No one learned
listened to the past
to the humane
voices in the wind.
Pain
She remembers nothing.
Head vibrates,
fingers tremble
heart thumps.
Her brain hangs on
one big thorn on a
mesquite tree.
She cannot cry,
looks at pestules on
dry, blotchy skin.
Her brain hangs on
one big thorn on a
mesquite tree.
She tries to remember.
Feet walk on
broken shards
eyes crimson,
silently cries.
Her brain hangs on
one big thorn on a
mesquite tree.
Sunday Haiku
Sun filters through junipers
wind whispers
mockingbirds sing mating songs.
Listening to a Band
Yesterday my second daughter arrived from Thailand. Biologically she is not my daughter, but rather my first exchange student six years ago. We have kept in touch over the years and she is now here with me for a month. Her best friend from high school here is also with us. Tonight we went to the Palace Coffee in Canyon, Texas, to listen to a trio because the band leader is a friend of the friend. This poem attempts to describe the music.
Long hair flying
except the drummer
Wild strumming
No picking
Guitar and bass
percussion not strings
Three percussion instruments
vibrating sound
until
suddenly
guitar becomes synthesizer
haunting, electronic
other dimensional.
Then
back to
three percussion instruments
vibrating sound
voices lost
Aging
Today’s contribution to the Tupelo Press 30/30 commitment:
Face can be lifted
Arms covered with long sleeves
Hands plumped with injections
Eyebrow and head hair dyed
You really know you are old
when your pubic hair turns grey.
Sunday Haiku
Mourning doves call at dawn
haunting echoes
I turn, drifting back to dreams.
Note: today is my birthday. Spent the day at a soccer tournament in Midland/Odessa watching my grandson play club soccer. Returned home to find, at last count, 82 birthday wishes on Facebook, greetings from all but two continents. Feeling grateful.
