floating and leaving no trace
they stick in your throat
the words
they struggle
under your adam’s apple
a constriction
a spasm of the muscles
poorly coordinated nerves
preventing them from exiting
they stick
“i’m sorry”
try to swallow them down
“i was wrong”
let them
let them
let them open your mouth
let them open your mouth
“i was wrong”
let them be heard
“i love you”
still water
cut by boats
cut by the sun
shining like a knife
across the surface
still water
supporting floating gulls and cormorants
lazily chasing darting sandpipers
–somewhere out of sight
the bark of a seal
a dog shakes the winter water
from his coat
emerging from the sea
smiling as only a dog can smile
in this mix of warm sun
cold ocean and fresh air
It’s my first Friday Haiku of 2016!
—–
osprey on the light
tearing into some breakfast
–new year’s day morning
signs and portents on
viewing an owl in flight
and stationary in a tree
and again in flight
on the last night of the year
the owl, athena’s friend
and harbinger of eternal night,
paused in her flight long enough
for us to view her in a tree
tawny and silent she watched us
and allowed us to approach her tree
while holding her in the beam
of a flashlight
and then she flew again
wings silent
all we could hear were the sounds
of nearby freeway traffic
so much like unceasing waves
the day before we had seen
five hawks
sentinels on lamp posts
lining the road during a drive
and counted ourselves lucky
–a five-hawk day
but what does this night predator
so beautiful and silent
caught for a moment in her flight
in the white artificial light
in my hand
portend for the year ahead?
it waits
not in a place
like a monster you can
dispel with a flip
of the light switch
it doesn’t lurk
in the closet or under the bed
though you can feel it waiting
waiting all around you
that clicking
ticking
of the clock
reminding you that
the year is spent
like your birthday money
that you blew on
a record that you wanted
for just one song
and a magic trick
that was interesting
exactly once
someone left a loaf of bread
by the roots of the pine tree
my dog wants to investigate
hoping that there are also
the makings of a sandwich
hidden in the bushes
but he’ll settle
for the wet bread
flavored by needles
and soft grass
i glow
i am a furnace
hot and steel-forging
and the blades i produce
make damascus weep
each word an edge
each word a razor so fine
it slices my tongue as it
leaves my mouth
i quench my blades
my words
in the cool water of you
in the satisfying draughts
of your eyes
of your words
which are sheaths to my own
the maple
the wind
the sun
the wind moves
in this grove
rustling the tall grass
the hollow grass
they strike each other
played like instruments
knocking
knocking
dappled light
filters through green
and yellow
yellow and green
it is easy to forget
the blue of the sky
the cold sunlight
the cold sun
the carols over
dinner digesting–only
melancholy left
