A Way of Being, A Way of Meaning


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.

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About this Entry

This page contains a single entry by Steven Riddle published on February 17, 2009 7:10 PM.

Judy and Ella: "Get Happy" was the previous entry in this blog.

Against Antineurogenesis is the next entry in this blog.

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