Virginia rain

Virginia rain —
my sons argue
in their sleep

Virginia rain —
my son’s girlfriend’s
silly laugh

Virginia rain —
magnolia petals
everywhere

Time and a Season

Traditional haiku are written in the context of a particular season. The primary subject that represents the body of the haiku is imbued with the rich imagery associated with that season, creating a natural setting in which the haiku can resonate with the reader.

Modern haiku tend to focus on events and imagery that freeze time without regard to a natural context. September 11th resonates with us, not because of a sense of approaching autumn, but because of the horror of a collossal act of violence and the intensity of human suffering that followed. In these first few years of the 21st century, our seasons are defined by pre-emptive wars and color-coded terror alerts.

Hence my dilemma as a haiku poet: to frame a unique moment as an extension of the timelessness of nature, or to rivet it into the granite of my own psyche, in which a certain universality is exchanged for a sense of personal relevance.

Case in point: Sunday April 24th began the same as many other Spring days in New England—rain, fog, temperatures in the 40s. I drove from Boston to Bridgeport to pick up my two youngest sons as part of my perennial season as non-custodial dad. We had dinner at a local barbeque restaurant, where I noticed a row of blossoming trees. I didn’t know what they were. “Dogwoods?” I asked. “Cherry trees”, my wife replied, correcting the haiku poet.

Later that evening, the phone rang. It was my eldest daughter’s boyfriend. Given the momentum of their rejuvenated relationship and the unique season of their own lives—less than two weeks until graduation—I had an inkling of what it was about.

cherry blossoms —
a shaky voice asks me
for my daughter’s hand

This is the first haiku I’ve ever written with the words “cherry blossoms” in the first line. It isn’t about cherry blossoms.

rain delay

rain delay —
the home plate umpire
lights another cigarette

cold snap

cold snap —
I carry my dog
up the stairs

hot April afternoon (and variations)

hot April afternoon —
a roadside memorial
made out of beer cans

hot April afternoon —
the bicycle courier
runs a red light

hot April afternoon —
a hubcap filled
with tree pollen

hot April afternoon —
my eyes unbutton
her Red Sox jersey

warm April day

warm April day —
my dog is pre-approved
for a Bank One Master Card

sweet sixteen

(for Josiah)

sweet sixteen —
my son benches
one-eighty

April 15th

April 15th —
a truck backfires
on the Mass Pike

April 15th —
spandex-clad women
on stationary bikes

Tax Day —
the dog eats
only half her meal

optical illusions

objects in the mirror
are closer than they appear.
always check the blind spot
before changing lanes.
are these metaphors for life,
I ask myself?
I don’t answer.

the look in your eyes
when you almost drowned.
I knew enough
not to reach for you
but to jump right in
clothes and all.
panic didn’t set in
until years later.
this is why I shiver at night.

another pool
many years later.
this time it’s empty
save for last autumn’s leaves
and a memory of summer
somewhere else.

April chill and variations

Written on the train this morning—somewhere between Natick and South Station...

April chill —
Wakefield’s knuckleball
unhittable

April chill —
she doesn’t acknowledge
my smile

April chill —
I leave another
message

April chill —
a stranger lights a cigarette
in the crowd

April chill —
a cigarette smoulders
in the fresh mulch

April chill —
the 7:09 too full
for a card game

April chill —
their May-December romance
still a month away

pay day

pay day —
I flick a dead mosquito
from my forearm

spring frost

spring frost —
I call an acquaintance
by the wrong name

April morning

April morning —
is that dew or frost
on my windshield?

daylight savings

I’d love to have that hour back.
not that I object to the illusion
(your shimmering hair defying the night)
but I’m better misconstrued
in honest twilight.

hence the dilemma:
what I could do
with another sixty minutes
and the wisdom of another day?
swallow my words
without the bitter aftertaste
and gaze not an inch beyond your eyes.