Dog on a Leash (and Other Haikus)

Legos

My fingers fumble

to click the blocks together.

Where’s the yellow brick?

 

The Move

Staring at the space

where a sculpture used to stand;

now just an imprint.

 

Soil

Between specks of dirt

I can hear the solemn songs

of forgotten souls.

 

Cloud Nine

I forgot I walked

all the way down this hallway

when I held your hand.

 

Dog on a Leash

You’ve strangled my hand

hoping that for a second

I’d let you escape.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – The Interview

The ticking of the clock was incessant. Every second echoed in Jim’s head like footsteps down an empty hallway. Every shifting seat; every squeaking shoe rattled in his ears. His knee trembled like a spooked horse, trying to escape. Then they called him, and he was off to the races.

——

 

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The Golden Apple

The Golden Apple

 

It’s a wonder Paris could choose

who would get the golden apple

when I can barely part with one

that has red and yellow spots.

 

Yet he thrust it into the palms

of the porcelain god Venus

without a pause to consider

the empty pit in his stomach.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – Jello Legs

The door looked like it was a mile away. The orange sky was quickly fading, and with it Jon’s strength to move. He lurched past the desks, struggling to keep his footing. By the time he got to the door, he wasn’t sure if he could find his car beyond.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – The Corpse

The sour smell of the corpse rose through the air. It smelled of feces and dirt, though the snow gave it the bite of icy wind. The blood had faded into a deep brown with time, and when he finally wrenched the body free, it seemed to whisper, “come back…”

——

 

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Stick Figures

There isn’t very much to them.

A circle, a vertical line, and

a two pairs of diagonals

for some added flavor.

 

If you really liked them, you might

draw in a couple dots for eyes,

a lightly curved “L” for a nose,

and a slow, slothful “U” for a smile.

 

You may even scratch out the head

and replace it with a square

to make the robotic servant

that you always dreamed about.

 

And if they ever tried to tease you

you could toss their treason

onto the pile in the trash can

where they couldn’t hurt you

like the rest.

——

 

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Snowfall on the Mountain

The grey wool coat clung to Harrison’s shoulders like a child to its mother. The first snow of the year was falling lightly through the brisk winter air as the last lights of the day arced over the horizon. It was his favorite time of the year.

In addition to his coat, Harrison had bundled himself in three blankets that draped from his neck down past the bottoms of his feet. Still, the cold had set in, and he felt it shiver through him in spite of his attempts at warmth. Up at his mountain house, the temperatures were half what they were down below, and even there the lakes had turned to ice. Still, the view of the pines daunted the grey city buildings he live for day in and day out. Their calm, cool whistle sounded to him like the voice of his grandparents, calling out to him from decades past.

The house had once been their house—though when they owned it, it had been more a shack than the manse he had built it into. The lawyers of the estate sale gave it up for less than a hundred thousand—a good price, but likely not much less than it was actually worth. The first year he had owned it, the roof gave out under the heavy winter snow, and he had had to bring in a work crew to fix it in the spring.

The memory of it brought a smile to Harrison’s face. It was bitter sweet to think of his grandparents, even all these years later. He had broken down crying that first year, after pushing his mourning to the back of his mind for work.

He lifted an arm out of his bundles, and reached for the Earl Grey tea he had brought out with him. It had been boiling when he brought it out, but the cold had swept the heat from the mug, and it hardly qualified as lukewarm now. The cold made the honey he had mixed in stronger, and for a minute he wondered if he had added a second spoonful by accident. He poured the rest of the tea onto the deck, though it simply painted the piling snow a grey-black color.

It was Harrison’s favorite time of year because the sunsets up the mountain turned the sky into a shimmer of yellow-orange diamonds. The light reflected through the snow, bouncing every which way, and from where he sat it looked like the stars had settled above the trees. In all his exotic business trips, he had never seen a snowfall to match the first of those up on the mountain. Eventually, the snowfall would grow thick, and even the highs of the day would become so cold that they would threaten a person if they stayed outside for more than a few minutes, but tonight it was still warm enough that Harrison could stay to see if the moon would be full or not.

He lost track of the days up here. Somewhere inside, his phone was waiting with an alert that would break the silence of his weeks off, and let him know he had to leave the next day, but for the life of him he couldn’t tell you where it was. All he could see were the snowflakes floating across the skyline, and the whispers of a long gone youthful innocence.

——

 

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Dog Ears (and Other Haikus)

Foggy

The morning fog flows

through the field of flowers

like a grey tendril.

 

Three Pens

One held in my hand,

one hiding in my pocket,

and one left at home.

 

Filters

The rosy red cheeks

pasted on a pale face

while hearts float around.

 

The Black Wall

It looks like the night

after I closed my worn eyes

waiting for sleep’s grasp.

 

Dog Ears

I put out my hand

to scratch behind your black ears

and see your eyes beam.

——

 

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Hungry Cat (and Other Haikus)

Introverted

Sometimes I will hide

underneath layers of skin

like clams in their shell.

 

Touch

We touched fingertips

like wisps of wind to a tree.

Now my heart won’t stop.

 

Sleepless

Sliding down the stairs

of a sleepless night’s torment

into a sick noose.
Brainstorm

Like Zeus’s lightning

thundering in the neurons

struck a mental home.

 

Hungry Cat

I know that you’re mad

but there’s no need to maw me

while I get your food.

——

 

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CLAREMONT, CA

I’m feeling quite sick today, so I’m posting a poem that I wrote initially a while back, and am still working on.

Claremont, CA

Most thoughts of days outdoors start at Memorial Park,

where the plains of grass span between the seas of trees

waiting for picnickers to unpack their plates of cheese

in the evergreen sunlight of a perpetual spring day.

 

But this day seems better meant for a stroll

down the way to the village, where the bustle

of busy people breaks through the monotony

of an otherwise boring afternoon.

 

If you’re in a rush, you might take a short cut down Yale

where the light mess of greenery dodges around cozy homes,

or take a run along Harvard, if you’re feeling competitive.

Still, I prefer to take Indian Hill, the main road,

 

where you can peer down a corridor of ancient arbors

and see history unfold between the leaves,

like dancers telling the stories of each incumbent

through the wordless steps of wind-riddled branches.

——

 

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