Sunday, January 8, 2017

Poetry bits and bobs

It's nice to sleep in and pull up the covers,
whether you're single or long-time lovers.

*  *  *

Dallas calls,
like New York,
but with an accent I'm more accustomed to.

*  *  *

The cat
     comes
            in
              with the
                     fog...
creeps quietly
         through
                the
                     room...

and barfs all over the floor.

*  *  *

One of these days,
Monday won't come 'round here no more,
but for now,
we're sitting at the table,
drinking coffee,
making plans.

*  *  *

THE END

Sunday, January 1, 2017

My 2016 Haiku

Starting with the first haiku I wrote this year, and ending with the last one. Happy New Haiku Year!

I saw the Blackstar
dance in the sky through your eyes,
changing everything.

*  *  *

If roses were brown
and sugar was peppery,
love would still prevail.

*  *  *

No shenanigans
today or tomfoolery,
if you please. Thank you.

*  *  *

Sunday birds singing
David Bowie’s greatest hits,
or so I presume.

*  *  *

Twitter poetry
is a cheeseburger with fries
and a diet Coke.

*  *  *

Grandma’s patchwork quilt
of old days long remembered
one stitch out of time.

*  *  *

That damn cat wants out
and in again on demand,
like I’m her hired hand.

*  *  *

Cats will not be trained.
They make cat whisperers cry
for even trying.

*  *  *

There’s a good reason
it's called Tornado Alley
and not Sprinkle Lane.

*  *  *

In out in out in
out again. What? Now back in?
The fickle feline.

*  *  *

Sunday afternoon
Michelle, ma belle, on vinyl
kinda lazy day.

*  *  *

Long day ‘bout over
‘cept for the owl on sentry
asking hard questions.

*  *  *

You can smell the rain.
At least that’s what they tell me.
My nose is stopped up.

*  *  *

Monday ain’t no worse
than a ne’e-do-well Thursday.
It just seems like it.

*  *  *

A warm summer rain
taps on my roof like Sammy
doing Bojangles.

*  *  *

That old chesnut, love,
should be shared with everyone,
not just our neighbors.

*  *  *

Dig the blue mohawk
coloring the River Walk
in old San Antone.

*  *  *

Monday walk about
the yard thinking to mow but
not now, tomorrow.

*  *  *

She stood there for us,
resolute in her beliefs
and kicked their asses.

*  *  *

It’s been a good day
and it’s not even lunchtime.
Hard work is the key.

*  *  *

Sunday is a day
of restaurant deciding;
Thai or fried chicken?

*  *  *

I don’t think my verse
can save me like I’m hopin’.
But no use mopin’.

*  *  *

Good morning Monday.
Since we’re going the same way,
can I hitch a ride?

*  *  *

Sunday afternoon
guilt of way too much reading,
not enough yard work.

*  *  *

I have a poem
tree blooming from my top shelf.
It reveals the world.

*  *  *

He was a good cat
that didn’t give a rat’s ass
a chance to relax.

*  *  *

Can’t miss the sunrise,
the sweetest part of the day.
Gus and his biscuits.

*  *  *

Outside, an old owl.
I have no answers for him,
but he keeps asking.

*  *  *

It don’t come easy:
the good stuff, rewards, self-worth.
Only through hard work.

*  *  *

That shower was nice
but the ground sucked it up dry
as a martini.

*  *  *

Sunday-morning news:
Walmart Sells Deep Fried Twinkies.
Unhealthy? So what?

*  *  *

Tuesday, what a lark;
rise, shine, work, love, show kindness,
forge a better world.

*  *  *

Headline News: A smile;
Next up in sports: Simone Biles;
Weather: Sunny, mild.

*  *  *

The Queen of England
is made of cosmic star stuff
just like you and me.

*  *  *

The place seems empty
now that she’s no longer here
to say good morning.

*  *  *

Coffee, porch, sunlit
trees, cool breeze and mockingbird
impersonations.

*  *  *

Stick with haiku, son.
That simple 5-7-5
suits your intellect.

*  *  *

Last summer rainstorm,
oh how I love the way you
keep me from mowing.

*  *  *

Autumn always sneaks
in through Summer’s back screen door
just to sit a spell.

*  *  *

Gracious how the week
progresses to Saturday
and gives me a lift.

*  *  *

A frog in the pond /croaked, croaked, croaked, croaked, croaked all night long / just because, I guess.

*  *  *

San Antonio
Saturday street ArtPace-ing
haiku in the wild.

*  *  *

Back home on the cool
porch breezes and hot coffee
cup between my hands.

*  *  *

Lazy-day cookin’
red beans and cornbread lookin’
like my kind of grub.

*  *  *

It’s anybody’s
guess who’s coming to dinner,
but we always share.

*  *  *

Another debate?
Weren’t the first two more than clear?
Never Trump! Never!

*  *  *

Watching meteors
shower over my homestead.
Streak, flash, and then gone.

*  *  *

Cool Texas morning.
Hot Columbian coffee.
All is well, for now.

*  *  *

In case you missed it,
I used ICYMI
in a tweet today.

*  *  *

Wednesday haiku night.
Smoke-filled room, beer, pen, paper.
Just me and the boys.

*  *  *

Circus still in town.
Scary clown won’t go away.
Damn the elephants.

*  *  *

An extra hour?
I’ll use mine out on the porch,
just being quiet.

*  *  *

Just another day
to plot how we’ll change the world
for the good of all.

*  *  *

Out of many, one
nation of all the people
we must overcome.

*  *  *

The old clock is tick
tocking, mocking all this time
we think is owed us.

*  *  *

Saturday night life
around the kitchen table:
talk, laugh, friends, food, love.

*  *  *

Today’s grand exploit?
I went out to get the mail.
It was only junk.

*  *  *

I don’t mind the rain
as long as it knows its place:
Out. Not leaking in.

*  *  *

I'd rather be home,
but the trail don't go that way.
Someday, yes. Someday.

*  *  * 

THE END