Common Threads

 

Hidden Yogurt Haiku

He’s been “missing out”

on his “ten o’clock yogurt”

because “I hid it!” 

……

   ……

      ……

I’m gonna “own up.”

I wish to be one who’d “hide 

yogurt” – – not candy! 

 

Picasso Journal Haiku

I was going to 

write in green ink….. but then I

picked up the blue pen

I want some breakfast

…but need the mindset of a

brunch and lupper plan

I’m going to work 

…but I’d rather be camping

writing by the fire

A redbird bracelet 

keeps my late mother at hand

…in my heart always

I’d rather wear my 

Birkenstocks to work today

…but I’ll wear my Clarks…

Air conditioner 

repair finished yesterday

…coffee once again! 

WiFi out, struck by 

lightning….I’m disconnected

lost deep in the woods

My days seem like those

Picasso paintings…all slant

and tilted and skewed

If Picasso had 

been a poet….would he have

written in fragments? 

 

Clocklike Footwork Haiku

weekday

school-office workout 

non-stop on-the-clock lock-step fanciful footwork 

afternoon

knocking about town 

bottoms of feet locked to my Birkenstock cork-tops 

evening

lounging about house 

worn out, both feet propped on my olive ottoman 

weekend

lolling on campground

feet dropping from my hammock 

clock stopped for re-stock 

 

Nonsense Haiku 

I’m giving myself 

a list of menu options 

for healthier meals 

tired of this nonsense 

eating whatever I want 

whenever I want 

Seeking two kayaks 

to explore our campground lakes 

…….I need mine to float!

 

Togetherness Haiku

Weekend off the grid

Peaceful Dames Ferry Campground

Campsite twenty-one

Lake Juliette’s shores

Thirty feet from our camper

Kayaks gliding by

Banana oatmeal

Coffee swirled to perfection

Chatter of wildlife 

Picnic lunch lakeside 

Steak and tomato sandwich

Bottled Blue Moon beer

Reading in camp chairs

Schnauzer, Schnoodle in our laps

shade-napping in the hammock

Fresh salmon filets 

square picnic table dining 

spring splendor grilling 

Families of ducks 

New ducklings finding their way

Sticking together

Family cookout

Post-loss grief, finding new ways

of togetherness 

A poem about my greatest fear 

A Naked Haiku 

I fear the day

When I lose my mind and go

Naked through the streets 

 

Janisse Ray 

Ecology of a Cracker Childhood 

“Not long ago I dreamed of actually cradling a place as if something so amorphous and vague as a region, existing mostly in imagination and idea, suddenly took form. I held its shrunken relief in my arms, a baby smelted from a plastic topography map, and when I gazed down into its face, as my father had gazed into mine, I saw the pine flatwoods of my homeland.”

A Logging Nonsense Nonette 

pine

forests- 

Longleaf pines 

Loblolly pines  

ecosystems of 

Keystone diversity 

animals filling niches 

parklike words to protect them from Great Horned  

        Owls, coyotes, and foxes

logging crews swoop in and cut through rings 

decade timelines of eras lived 

giving shelter to sparrows, 

chipmunks, fox squirrels, and snakes 

understory shade 

to flora and 

fauna – for

homes they 

pine

 

The Empty Shoebox 

there can be no honoring
of a strong family legacy
in an empty shoebox

everywhere around there are families –
bloodlines, genes, those who harbor their own
who love in spite of shortcomings as she did

but there will be no spirit of all she stood for lighting the way
there will be no candle glowing in the dark;
the acolytes have extinguished the flame

there will be no glimmer at her grave
no fulfillment of the obligation
to never leave the gospel side candle burning alone
as the ordering of candles goes from left to right
in the passage of predecessors

there will be no living tribute to all that she loved
no keeping memories burning bright for future generations
no sharing remembrance across the tree canopy 

so over her body, the grass grows thick
blooming vines climbing the chain-link fence boxing her in
the fragrances of pleasantry she cultivated
in those she loved
now forevermore kept to one small pasture shoebox
of the wide, wide world where she once lived
her spirit never meant to dwindle here where
her shoes will never be filled
just the shell of an empty shoebox
collecting tears from heaven

not one can wear her burial shirt with truth,
    stained now with hypocrisy for those who would try
not one can fill a shoebox of hope without contradiction
not one can volunteer hands of love packing boxes that matter
     when her legacy doesn’t

there’s no room for untangling the Christmas tree lights
there’s no place for pretending the joy lives on

how can we carry her light forth into the world
when her hopes, dreams,
examples for generations to come
have died, roots of a family tree now fallen?

no one can hate family and honor a parent’s legacy
at the same time
any more than they can love God
and hate His son 

and so we walk away from all that mattered to her
           an empty shoebox
               a box of marquis letters now scattered
                   without message to passersby
                      who still look for divine truths her hands once
                            spelled out on a church sign

 A Secret Connoisseur of Antiquarian Libraries 

old heart pine floor
creaking underfoot
as I step into the
library of antique bookcases –
mahogany, teak, cherry, oak –
in this hidden forest of
vintage volumes,
musty scents of the wardrobe
to Narnia, of Turkish Delight,
the sting of cold wind-whipped snow,
the sounds of tropical birds
welcoming the sunrise along the wave-lapped shores of
Treasure Island,
mingled tastes of pungent stench
of soured ale permeating the
streets of drunken London in Dickens’ day, hunger and filth and bare feet
on cobblestone streets

first editions
with gold lettering and
threadbare bindings
lining every wall, floor to ceiling
books – vertical, horizontal on shelves,
stacked sideways on tables
under oil lamps and
centuries-old spectacles
an inkwell of rich indigo ink and
its vessel, a fountain pen atop
a half-finished handwritten letter never mailed to his love on the desk, nearby
a copy of The Scarlet Letter open
to the sunlight-faded names of Hester and Pearl,
tiny dust motes dancing like ghosts
at a Victorian ball
along the heavy lace-lined velvet draperies 

I stand, mesmerized,
wondering about the hands that held each book
and the worlds from which
they escaped to read…..

 A Hip Wild Rose 

I want to become

A wearer of striped leggings

And purple high tops 

I want to become

A graffiti tricycle  

speeder – ding, ding,ding! 

I want to become 

a wildflower thief

snipping stems for free

I want to become 

a drinker of herbal tea

steeped in wild rose hips 

I want to become

a crazy dog lady 

with twelve dozen dogs 

I want to become 

a sporter of whimsical 

hats of all patterns 

I want to become 

a spunky retiree,

unpredictable 

For now I am a 

wearer of matching outfits

nothing too offbeat 

For now I am a 

county square pedestrian 

staying in the lines 

For now I am a 

colorless cubiclemate

minus the flowers 

For now I am a 

morning decaf coffee fan

never branching out 

For now I am a 

rescue Schnoodle/Schnauzer mom 

just these two enough 

For now I am a 

hatless day jobber

compliant and safe 

I want to become

the dreamer I’ve always been

when I’ve dared to dream.