I can’t write haikuabout that fellow takingthe shutter cord for his toy.I could write haikuabout the suspense thrummingas I breathe deeply.Right now I thinkonly of the two donutsawaiting me, soon…The nurse guides a manon the phone; he’s gotten lostand have not we all?I had to hear themsquabbling over violence, toappreciate peace.One mustn’t assume
Thursday happy hourtabletop, sticky with beera saint, undisturbedBus driver, stone-facedunder a handlebar ‘stachelets the cyclist livePower, knowing thatyou never get this momentto regurgitate“I am still freezing”from Tolstoy’s summation ofhis Russian winterThat someone would comealong but no, really youhave to save yourselfSeahawks umbrella
Siren through the rainhigh-pitched howl and soft spattergone, both, for morningI kiss these red lipsand put them back in their boxwax plugs my nostrilsTeach an idiotto write haiku; do you stillhave an idiot?A child’s persimmonhalf eaten, half-sticky, slidbetween two cushionsHuge green umbrellaswallows his slim form whole atthe Ave’s last pay phoneSplash–drench bicycle!
My God (oh, let me call Thee mine,Weak, wretched sinner though I be),My trembling soul would fain be Thine;My feeble faith still clings to Thee.Not only for the Past I grieve,The Future fills me with dismay;Unless Thou hasten to relieve,Thy suppliant is a castaway.I cannot say my faith is strong,I dare not hope my love is great;But strength and love to Thee belong;Oh, do not leave me desolate!I know I owe my all to Thee;Oh, TAKE the heart I cannot give!Do Thou my strength--my Saviour be,
A Pit -- but Heaven over it --And Heaven beside, and Heaven abroad,And yet a Pit --With Heaven over it.To stir would be to slip --To look would be to drop --To dream -- to sap the PropThat holds my chances up.Ah! Pit! With Heaven over it!The depth is all my thought --I dare not ask my feet --'Twould start us where we sitSo straight you'd scarce suspectIt was a Pit -- with fathoms under it --Its Circuit just the same.Seed -- summer -- tomb --
What does the hangman think aboutWhen he goes home at night from work?When he sits down with his wife andChildren for a cup of coffee and aPlate of ham and eggs, do they askHim if it was a good day's workAnd everything went well or do theyStay off some topics and talk aboutThe weather, base ball, politicsAnd the comic strips in the papersAnd the movies? Do they look at hisHands when he reaches for the coffeeOr the ham and eggs? If the littleOnes say, Daddy, play horse, here'sA rope — does he answer like a joke:I seen enough rope for today?