July 16, 2016

I was going to sit
This year out –
Had to drop last year
And took some flak
About it – unnecessarily –

Do my own thing –

But it IS the 10th year,
And it IS the 7th group,
And it IS August,
And there IS ink in my pen,
And we have tons of postcards
And postage stamps
Just lying around waiting.

So what the heck?
I just signed up.
Some Haiku for Sunday

First line has five beats.
But isn’t that Japanese?
Heck! Translation fails.

Romance me. Make me a rhyme.
Let me be the poem.

Things still remain wrapped
up – that want to be unwound –
thoughts and worlds unformed.

Can I stop it now?
Is there ink still in my pen?
A pulse in my veins?

And Colleen’s response:

If you wish you may –
stopping ink from a wet pen
it’s like drying rain

July 23, 2016

I was going to sit this year out –
Had to drop last year and took some flak
About it – unnecessarily – to do my own thing –

But #clmooc got the juices flowing
And reacquainted me with my own voice –
So I don’t care today who unfollows me

On Twitter. I learned, over the years,
how to exist outside my various identities –
Writing poems in August is one of those –

And yes, haiku fits better on the postcard,
And a sonnet might crowd the space.
Sunday Haiku – July 24

Words don’t always fall
Streaming like pearls from your lips –
Sounds – the soul’s delight.

Propaganda rules
The flat television screen –
Encircling my thoughts.

I won’t send this card
Until August starts – a stamp
And a poem will come.

Haiku may not fit
Your need or mine but we write
To occupy time.

I’d leave this sad world
In a heartbeat if I knew
What awaits beyond.

All the folks talking
Inside their echo chambers –
Hard to know what’s what.

Twitter tweets

if you think your privilege is going to save your sons and daughters from dying in Hillary’s wars, #YoureBeingRidiculous.

& if you think your privilege is going to save your job from being lost to Hillary’s bad trade deals, #YoureBeingRidiculous

& if you think your privileged middle class lifestyle is not about to take a big drop because of promises made to the 1%, #YoureBeingRidiculous.


Bus stop

I neither wanted nor needed freedom
in my youth. My brain, on fire, needed
a container with lots of oxygen​
to cool and feed its insatiable thirst
for truth. Older now with vision clouded
by smoke & smog, I seek that same freedom
I once disdained, forsook, refused, denied.
Older now with knees that ache at the thought
of bridging the divides that hide inside
my conversations – wait! My bus arrives
at its destination at last! One more
shuttle to catch, one more chapter to read,
one more sonnet of love or fate to extract.
And one more thirst, across the years, to quench.


wife said couldn’t post
photos of the okra on Facebook –
said it would be pornographic.
Skin was tough, too stringy
to eat. Only the seeds were edible,
and only after hours of boiling
with salt and butter.
But they were tasty!

7/29/2016#Saturday Librarian Haiku


okra grows too fast –
you can almost hear the sound
it makes maturing.

Writing haiku is –
like playing scales for warm-up –
stretching for a run.

The buzz/glow you bring
when we meet is better than
weed when we’re apart.


make from thought conceived –
freely, stress-less, gratitude –
plus purposeful pause…
Saturday Haiku

The Clairol Lady commercial

The Clairol commercial
used to ask: Is it true blondes
(white girls) have more fun?

My baby’s black hair
turns copper brown in the golden sun –
don’t need no bottled dye.

Wednesday Haiku (8/3/16)

Making haiku swing
Like Knight, and Wright at the end –
Swing dat hammer, swing.

Wednesday Haiku II (8/10/16)

a poem for the dead –
an elegy – won’t bring them
back to life again.

letting the dead speak
through your poetry is cause
for celebration.

elegies fall short –
the deceased prefer to speak
through the poet’s words.

Friday Haiku (8/12/2016)

The soil was bone dry.
I hope the bean sprouts don’t die
of negligent thirst.

Politics – pimps, whores,
tricks – wait their turn quietly,
ashamed, desperate.

The storm never came.
Preparations were for naught.
Worry – thief of time.

Portuguese crioule –
a language made for haiku –
words with hidden thoughts.

No need getting mad –
a pimp don’t pimp nothing but
a whore – a trick – dead.

Let’s just accept it.
Like many of our ancestors –
and Superman –
Simone Biles – can fly!

Saturday Haiku (8/13/2016)

fields of tobacco
stretch far as the eye can see –
Carolina – home.

a hot summer day
rushing home on the Orange Line –
swamp bottom heat.

if my handwriting
is illegible – I blame
mefloquine dreams.

Don’t let my last poems
be sad sonnets – let them breathe
deeply of haiku.

why is structure sought?
let words rip and roll off lips
still pleasant to kiss.

Haiku – my escape
from life’s quibbles and quarrels –
hide me in these lines.

Saving MY haiku –
to post post-August – Postcard
rules tell me to do.

Haiku wants to be FREE!
Wants to SCREAM! but remains
mute in its closet.

Are all sounds echoes
from a distant past? Are words
just leftover dreams?

on a serious roll – y’all’d
better check it out!

ain’t mad at Shaunae –
she flew to that finish line –
don’t blame her at all.