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about me
poet, technologist, cynic, father of five, child of chaos, punker, prankster, patriot, punster, leftist, latino, japanophile, audiophile, beer drinker, quiche eater, dog walker, soft talker, deep thinker, shallow sleeper, introvert, covert operative in a parallel universe.

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  •  

    extra special bitter
    hops are bitter. life is bitter. coincidence?

    Saturday, April 30, 2005

    Virginia rain

    Virginia rain —
    my sons argue
    in their sleep

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

    Virginia rain —
    magnolia petals
    everywhere

     

    Monday, April 25, 2005

    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.

     

    Sunday, April 24, 2005

    rain delay

    rain delay —
    the home plate umpire
    lights another cigarette

     

    Thursday, April 21, 2005

    cold snap

    cold snap —
    I carry my dog
    up the stairs

     

    Wednesday, April 20, 2005

    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

     

    Monday, April 18, 2005

    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

     

    Friday, April 15, 2005

    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

     

    Wednesday, April 13, 2005

    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.

     

    Tuesday, April 12, 2005

    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

     

    Friday, April 08, 2005

    pay day

    pay day —
    I flick a dead mosquito
    from my forearm

     

    Thursday, April 07, 2005

    spring frost

    spring frost —
    I call an acquaintance
    by the wrong name

     

    Tuesday, April 05, 2005

    April morning

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

     

    Monday, April 04, 2005

    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.

     

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