Butterfly

47 years old, my buddy gets his first tattoo.  Artistically, its impressive.  It is well detailed, and the colours are strong and balanced.  Even at a distance, where some tats look like bruises, his continues to look like art.  

Still, I wonder how long he'll enjoy it.  Is this a forever piece, or something he'll regret?  Will he, at 57, continue to feel like he does now?   And how has he evolved from his 37 year old, ink-free self?  Attitudes, outlooks, and tastes are not static.  Does he really want something that won't change?

Or maybe he wants something that won't change?

turning
his back to it
autumn wind


Contemporary Haibun Online Jan 2018

under a hood
with buds in my ears
I slip through
a crowd of other
people’s shadows


Atlas Poetica 32

after the bomb

a clock

with no hands

Modern Haiku 49.2

tossing
aside the umbrella -
summer lust


Prune Juice July 2018

Open Court

Anytime, Lebron.  One-on-one, my driveway.  You don't stand a chance.  I have the ultimate home court advantage.  I know every bump of the misshapen cement.  How the ball bounces down the slope.  The feel of the cool wind on my hands, the way to shoot when it gusts.  There's no softwood floor, no heated gym, no trainer to wrap your tender knees.  No pampering an NBA sissy.

Just you and me.

C'mon.

3 point shot
the long arc of
my dreams


Contemporary Haibun Online Jul 2017

Unmoored

The wind carries across the lake, biting my cheeks like cold teeth.  I shield myself and look over the water.  The surface is rough.  Waves rear their white capped heads but are yanked down again.  I'm reminded of the ghosts at the River Lethe:  pulled to the water, forced to drink.

Way out on the lake is a man in a rowboat.  At a distance, he looks pale.  He could be struggling, or enjoying the ride.  He's like an explorer in search of new lands, except in forgetting his proximity to shore.

grandpa can't find
the end of his tale
winter fog


Akitsu Quarterly Winter 2017 

The Panhandler

He's not very old.  Maybe 17.  Too young to vote, drink, own a gun, go to war.  But old enough to have been tossed aside, thrown into the world to manage on his own.  So far, he hasn't done a good job of it.

I've only got a $50 which I think is too much money.  I decide I'll give him a few dollars after I finish in the store.  But when I return, he's already gone: whisked away by impulse, the wind, or the police.

morning shade
the child who's chosen
last


cattails Fall 2017

hyacinth buds ...
a hunger deeper
than lust


Leonard Cohen Haiku tribute

cross-country skis
slide through powdered snow -
the path
I might have taken
in a parallel life


Presence 61

the homeless
between buildings
night fog


Wales Haiku Journal, Spring 2018

midnight jazz ...
a crow caws
out of time


Presence 61

open grave ...
examining the depth
of my shadow


Otata Nov 2017

stop light
a beggar feeds
on traffic


tinywords 16.2

curling up
before the fire ...
autumn leafs


Bamboo Hut, Spring 2018

late March
snow falls through
the hoop

The Heron’s Nest, Sept 2017

winter wind ...
a pallbearer tightens
his grip


hedgerow winter 2017

more bruise
than banana
autumn deepens


Wild Plum Fall 2017

bird seed
he scatters a handful
of change


Modern Haiku 49.1

the long arc
of a fly ball ...
prairie sky


Acorn 39

one last spin
of the merry-go-round ...
summer's end


hedgerow autumn 2017