State of the Union?

State of the Union —
what a great name
for an adult film!

exercise your haiku muscles

My winter fog posting was a direct result of this exercise.
I recommend it to anyone trying their hand at haiku.

winter fog (continued)

winter fog...
shadows
pick through trash

winter fog...
the reassuring rumble
of the train

winter fog...
a prank phone call
from my son

winter fog...
did I or did I not
set the alarm?

winter fog...
no one admits
to leaving out the milk

winter fog...
new ways to spin the word
“democracy”

winter fog

winter fog —
the streetlights
are alive

winter sun

winter sun —
I make two copies
of my offer letter

plugs for the program

I write a monthly column for the on-line journal GotPoetry.com. It’s a well-organized website with a deliberate leaning toward slam and performance poetry, but the folks there have always given my haiku a genuinely warm reception. Go figure!

Most recently I’ve written three articles on the subject of haikuness, a word I made up to describe my opinion of what makes a good haiku. I welcome those of you with curiosity (and a few minutes of spare time) to check it out and let me know what you think. By the way, the article Nice Guys Write Haiku will be published in GotPoetry’s upcoming paperback anthology. Stay tuned!

sidewalk ice

sidewalk ice —
a dance step I remember
from Junior High School

dirty snow

dirty snow —
my ex-wife’s voice
on the answering machine

Shakespeare's Wet Dream

Remember: when writer's block strikes, recycle. This poem was written almost ten years ago...

I hate you
blank sheet of paper
teasing my throbbing pen
whitewashed whore
craving my assault
me knowing that I must
you knowing that I can’t.
just remember
I could kill you
with a stroke of my pen.
and then you say
the magic words:
“shut up
and write all over me”

my mother's birthday

my mother’s birthday —
I am also
another year older

missing the train (again)

missing the train —
ice clings
to the wooden handrail

snow turns to rain

snow turns to rain —
I finally see
my son’s report card

winter wind

winter wind —
telling my boss
about the new job

two-hour meeting

two-hour meeting —
my pen runs out of ink
mid-doodle

Freedom Trail

Freedom Trail —
a stray dog sniffs
a black plastic trash bag

(still) January

January —
wiping the road salt
from my shoes

northerly wind —
the flagpole
whistles

or

northerly wind —
the flagpole whistles
to itself

winter storm watch

winter storm watch —
a stray dog crouches
between dumpsters

false spring

false spring —
a ladybug
in my salad

friday the thirteenth

friday the thirteenth —
a crow flies
across the moon

winter thaw

winter thaw —
the snowman’s
muddy cheeks

rush hour

rush hour —
chasing the crows away
from a dead gull

gibbous moon

gibbous moon —
the dog sniffs
every footprint

line of best fit

I couldn’t believe my ears
Then again, I wrote the words myself:
The myth of chemistry, the practice of alchemy
The look in your eyes
As I utter unutterable words
Before I can speak them
Before they can make any semblance of sense.
They were your words, after all
Your lips, your eyes
The embodiment of my lies
In a shimmering mirage
above my wine glass.

a passing freight train

a passing freight train . . .
I suddenly remember
my mother’s birthday

January

January —
a brown Christmas tree
on the side of the road

just one drink . . .

just one drink . . .
her t-shirt reads:
“you can’t afford me”

winter night

winter night —
half the moon
under wraps

disabled train

disabled train —
my reflection
in scratched plexiglas

Back Bay station

Back Bay station —
a well-dressed man
shouts at his cell phone

getting plowed?

I can’t decide between these two variations, so I’ll have to post both...

January —
the broken-down snow plow
of my dreams

sleepless night —
a broken-down snow plow
at the end of the road

January

January —
the health club crowded
with resolutions

New Year's Day

New Year’s Day —
so many more resolutions
than last year