Ah, again quiet
my ears ring with the hollow
memory of sound
Do you know what to
say sixty seconds before?
Try listening.
What would God say if
He were watching this sunset?
--I've outdone myself.
Steven's Poetry/Writing: February 2009 Archives
What do you say to
skin a half century old
and yet still supple?
What spring is this: brown
bugs breed and fill the house, warm
weather waits, unlit?
Where have paths of thought
left their uneasy traces?
Such a barren place.
You would cry if you
could hear it--the heart breaking
for what love can't do.
The words have gone far
away--not like the winter
birds that soon return.
Around him a fence--
I would build it if I could--
My hands are useless
Haiku are like finger exercises--or like Jackson Pollack canvases. You spread enough paint over enough canvas and surely you'll find some portion you can carve out as acceptable.
So with haiku--you can write three or four hundred of them in the time it takes to think of them, and from them you can cull a few--and it's a start on writing again. It is a launch back into that familiar world. Just as blogging itself.
