Prison

A rare attempt at haiku.

Realization:
Solitary confinement
Exists in a crowd

Brown Grass, Green Grass

What a wonder! What a miracle! Grass—
Of all plants, it receives the least respect…
And yet it speaks with a consumate wisdom.
Disdained by the masses, ignored or blamed
As fashion takes us, still it grows, relentless
In its determination to survive.
Scorched by the summer sun, the green grass burns
And turns a scraggly brown, withered and fragile;
But one small shower, one brief morning dew
Renews its luster. Left for dead, once-lush
Fields turn brick hard, their life crumbles to dust,
Cruel winds whisk away the last trace; and yet,
Should the rains return and soften its heartland,
Tiny blades of grass will soon find some way
To reassert themselves and start a new
Empire, their tiny green hordes now determined
To spread their dominion across the plains.
Jesus said that even though grass is here
Today and ends up getting burned tomorrow,
God still cares for it. Lord, make me like grass.

Where Wolf Dreams

Full moon rises; howling wolf cries out,
No companion save moon’s icy stare.
Bloody death alone can still the pangs;
Fierce desire consumes too-brief despair.
Cold night passes; howling wolf recedes;
Morning light steals blessed peace. Throat burns.
Transmutation finished, broken heart
Rules human thought till howling wolf returns.

Ginocide

Back in the Twenties, a thirsty public
Filed into the speakeasies and roared,
“Give us a drink – Uncle Sam won’t tell us
What to do!” So the bathtubs became stills
Where juniper berries, grain alcohol,
And a lot of nerve became bathtub gin.
The patrons drank, and many became still,
The noxious concoction silencing roars
That dying to drink was worth dying for.
Such happy hours caused Uncle Sam to take
A more temperate approach to buzzkill.

Plectrum

Frantically I claw at the guitar strings,
Trying to dig melodious sounds from
The steel ground with a dull plastic pickax.
Untapped veins of music run deep beneath
This flat plain of spruce, but all I find are
Irritating buzzes. I wipe my brow,
Take a deep breath, and resume my mining.
This song is buried deeper than I thought.

Aphrodite

Rising slowly from a roiling sea
Of strife, the fledgling goddess lifts her head,
Reaches out her hand, and smiles, demure
Yet brazen; all the world stands still in awe.
As Nature rearranges life itself,
Acknowledging her presence, she is drawn
Toward the man she chooses to receive
The gift of her devotion. She enchants
Him with her smile, then with her scent,
And then her gentle touch; she takes his hand.
Together they depart this sacred beach
While others watch with longings unsuppressed.
But he sees no one else, save her alone;
His life began anew when love was born.

Vuvuzelas

Angry hornets sting the air
And swarm around the soccer field
Their raging thunder shakes the walls
Until the opposition yields

An ancient custom modernized
From horns once worn by quiet kudu
Critics argue: Is this noise
A cheering blast… or aural voodoo?

No one knows for sure, but somewhere
Businessmen are all abuzz
They’re making lots of money selling
Noisy plastic vuvuzelas

Ode to a Personal Toiletry

I’m into silly poetry lately;
I’m sure it will pass soon. Just be patient!

I don’t know what I’d do without
My trusty little deodorant;
It saves me from those social gaffes
That come from being malodorant.

Headache

They call me Boom-Boom. I like it noisy.
Acoustics are wonderful under this dome.
Although the space is crowded with gray stuff
That rarely gets used, I still call it home.

Many’s the man who thinks I’m a pain
But think twice before you condemn me, sport—
You wish you were as determined as me
And I’m against drugs of any sort.

Maybe I cause you trouble and stress
And ring in your ears like clanging bells,
But that’s my job. What’s your excuse
When you cause a headache to someone else?

Sippy Cup

Marketers may call them “Insulated
Mugs,” but we know where they really came from.

Oh, precious little sippy cup!
I’m glad your lid fits tightly
‘Cause otherwise I’d spill my drink
And stain my clothes. Unsightly!

I know that you were made for kids
But I won’t be too picky
‘Cause when adults spill drinks, we end up
Mortified and sticky.

So thank you, Mr. Sippy Cup,
For ending cataclysm—
‘Cause now my drink will quench my thirst,
Not crush my narcissism.

Elvish Presley

He couldn’t be more than five years old but
His mane would do a rock star proud. His parents
Clearly know a legend when they see one;
They tease and mousse their little prodigy
Until his decoupaged pompadour can’t
Be mussed by breeze or shower or nuclear
Winter. A pair of shades and an emphatic
“Thank you very muuuch!” greet strangers who think
He’s both cute and strange. Does any parent
Really expect a healthy teen to sprout
From a poor sawed-off copy of “the King”?
I just hope he doesn't leave the building
Unsupervised...

Dragons of the Sea

Slowly, majestically, the dragons come
With nostrils smoking, red eyes flashing brightly.
They slither silently across the deep sea,
Seeking their prey among the foolish ones
Sailing their dark domain. A merchant sets
His sights on wealth, wealth beyond his wildest
Dreams, only to find the sandman possesses
Gaping jaws and fiery breath, and prefers
The crunch of splintering masts and shattering
Bones to such sweet sleep as the self-assured
Adventurer gains from his avarice.
In the end, his partners will mourn his fate.
The curious will investigate and
The skeptical will castigate, but
The dragons of the sea will take their share.

Rockets’ Red Glare

A meditation on watching fireworks.

Not red alone, but blue and gold and green—
A rainbow of explosions high above
The earth and her inhabitants, all standing
With mouths wide and eyes like flashing mirrors,
Reflecting the wonder of excited
Kids—no matter how much those eyes have seen.
Explosions thrill without fear; fire rains down
And no one runs in terror; all gather
Together to watch as the tools of war
Bring joy to the young at heart… and all cheer.

Endless Asphalt

Sometimes road trips can get awfully tiring.

Endless asphalt rolls beneath us,
Boring mile after boring mile.
Lines of pines streak silently by—
Giants marching in rank and file—
And I can only wonder when
We’ll get there, like a whining child.

Pluto Is No Longer a Planet

Poor little Pluto! Scientists say he’s
Only an ice ball out beyond Neptune—
Never a planet, it seems, after all.
That’s what they say, those stubborn starwatchers:
“A planet must orbit alone in space;
Its neighborhood must be a quiet place.”
Not socialite Pluto! Scientists found
Too many partyboys rockin’ his hood.
They promptly evicted him; now he’s gone
And his hood is a lost memory. He
Just wanders, homeless, never again to
Know the warmth of… well, he never knew warmth,
But that’s not the point. It wasn’t his fault.
Blame Eris, that backstabbing gate-crasher!
The goddess of strife he didn’t invite
Made such a ruckus, she ruined it all.
Without that mistake, our poor old Pluto
Might still be rockin’ as Planet Oh-Nine.

Astroturf

A poem consisting of six Collom lunes.
Collom lune: American haiku form;
Three lines of 3 words, 5 words, and 3 words.

Synthetic grassy substitute
Where cleats grab better but
Falls hurt worse

Never needs mowing
Fertilizer merely makes a mess
Doesn’t waste water

No more reseeding!
Merchandiser makes a perfect pitch:
Turn grass under

The perfect lawn
Never wreck weekend plans again
Your neighbors drool

Company sales skyrocket
Oxygen production plummets to zero
Immaculate cemetery remains

No one drools
But here’s one good thing:
No doggie poop