A black butterfly
with a wide white stripe flutters
across my haiku.
Baby gecko darts
across cold white bathroom tiles
and just disappears.
He/goes and She/goes
but Egos are always there—
ending in No/goes.
On a fool’s errand
with a mind full of fool’s gold—
I chase shiny things.
Not everything fits
in 17 syllables—
not even one life.
Young lovers in a
turquoise hammock suspended
between two chaste palms.
Haiku is a tweet
From 17th century
Japanese poets.
Just 17 syllables
connect me to old Basho.
Buzz of big black fly
on cool bright May afternoon
spoiled paradise.
I turn the faucet
and water runs hot and cold—
thinking of father.
I sit on my hands
and wait to see what happens—
karma laughs at me.
I am my own worst
enemy and best of friends—
can we make amends?
Roots suck in the muck
and squeeze the earth juices up
the tulip's thin stem.
It is easier
to validate a parking
ticket than a child.
A cat would never
become a vegetarian —
but my daughter did.
Overwhelmed by so
many opportunities—
bees flee the garden
Startled by scarlet
cardinal bolting from a
frozen cypress branch.
Hydrogen atoms
mate with oxygen atoms—
dew drops on green grass.
Next time I will fly
high into the wide blue sky—
my feet become wings.
The flying fish soars
over the raging white caps
and swims beneath waves.
The real world is a
hardware store for most people—
nuts and bolts and glue.
They try to stick together
things that want to fall apart.
She bagged groceries
with a fresh college degree
and a hopeless smile.
Interminable
drought without any rainfall—
the sky will not weep.
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