Haiku, 9/7/26

I sweep spiky beech

Tree shells from the lake house porch —

Shih-te laughs at me.

Note: Shih-te is an eccentric Zen figure always depicted with a broom and laughing, usually with his friend Hanshan.

Two Stump Speeches

“Some chose to run, many to hide

Inside their temples and rooms,

Where every one of them died

In incendiary tombs.

I ignore the mourning fog

Outside and inside my mind,

Hand in hand with Gog in Magog

And all the rest of my kind.

“What are these floods and fires

And stupidity admirers

(Viruses in a cracked petri jar)?

How can I fight the coming war

We’re already losing day by day

As I run, slower and slower, away?”

The Actor Acts Out

As I am “self,” I am more than I am.

I really only speak thus to myself.

My voice is always sweetly orotund,

But what I’m here to say is all mere sham.

I’ve earned a moiety of fame and pelf

And not once have I given a refund.

My fingers flick about like ten small swords,

Not as sharp as the edges of my words.

My visage contortions are a mirror

(That’s where I learned them) of your hapless souls;

Mine is a mimesis of your terror

As you nose up squinting from your mole holes.

Ah, sirrahs, let’s be friends. (I’m just joking!)

My playwright prints my words — gads, she’s smoking!

Note: Sirrah is an archaic term used as a form of address to men, boys, or children, 

often to express anger, impatience, or contempt.

NOW, A Sonnet on My 73rd Birthday

There's nothing there we haven't seen before,

But not so many times we can afford 

To hustle past. Let's promise each other --

Never commit the sin of being bored.

Besides, so much has changed in just a year.

The sun-rustled air seems even clearer.

The pattern of the leaves left in the trees

(Yes, the postcard days ended yesterday),

Suggests paragraphs full of ideas,

Things we think but never think to say.

The colors play the best part of the scene,

And we must grant each leaf its final bow.

If we could stay to watch the last careen

To the ground, we might settle then at Now.

War II, Terzata #46

It’s possible to destroy even hell

And turn evil to dust

With the dropping of shell after shell.

What remains is one man’s lust

Mating with his own cold will,

Giving birth to blood and rust.

Each bullet or bomb’s a pill

That plugs a hole in his brain.

Nothing is as still -- 

As is Ukraine,

Where a young child fell

And didn’t get up again —

Her killer dares her now to tell. 

IF, Sonnet #608

If the end doesn’t end, what then?

This moment is already contingent.

I dare you to count from one to ten,

To ignore a found dime, even a cent.

Each moment seems to come back to us

Like the wind in the tree’s susurrous.

We’ve never been here before to be.

Yesterday and tomorrow are empty.

If I walk around the block every day —

If the houses never look the same —

If flowers grow and trees disappear —

The sidewalk means don’t lose your way.

“If” might not misremember my name,

But won’t guarantee that I am here.

Haiku, 7/30/26

Midnight in July —

A cricket echoes my mind —

One sound from many —