Here’s a limerick, which is kind of an Irish haiku:
A young politician declared
On the pain that had to be shared
I’ll give you your part
But that’s just the start
You can also have mine, to be fair
A limerick
1
Category Archives: Poems
In the songs of my homeland
In the songs of my homeland
Children swing forlornly and wait
For brothers, or fathers
Who never come over the hill
Soldiers swill and brawl
And brag of windy, swift horses,
And wonder which alien sun
Will bleach their bones.
Girls sing gaily on river banks
While boys longingly watch.
“Lift my apron,” they tease,
“You’ll find a lovely squirrel!”
Everyone sings. Always.
They sing alone, or in pairs,
Or in large choruses of uncontrollable,
Irrepressible sheer vital will.
They sing of witches, and the Forest Mother
Who sows pine trees on the dunes
To keep the sea from stealing land
Carved out in bitter winters.
Oh, it’s barley, rye and the moon,
Bees, wasps and deer flies.
And at night, carven doorways
Keep the good luck in and the bad luck out.
They sing of death, and how it comes.
Softly or swaggering, expected or not,
And nightingales that sing full-throated,
Heedful or not.
Things I learned from my parents 1
Years ago, my father, an industrial engineer, designed a new record processing plant for RCA. As a result, when the time came, he was invited along with a handful of dignitaries to participate in the groundbreaking ceremonies. Each participant got a lovely oak-handled, chrome plated shovel to dig the ceremonial first clump of dirt. On the back of the blade was an inscription recording the event and the name of the celebrant; they got to keep the shovels as mementos.
Afterwards, my father took the shovel home and put it in the garage along with his other tools. My mother used it for years to dig in her garden. She thought it was a pretty good shovel.
Haibun: Cabbages
First posted January 2, 2012; augmented today.
I’ve been thinking lately of Barriss Mills, with whom I spent many pleasant afternoons discussing his always future kitchen remodeling plans, and watching him grind coffee in his ancient hand-crank machine, then drinking it with him. After his retirement from his long career of teaching English literature, he spent time rereading all the classics he taught for decades, and discovered he’d missed teaching his students the most important aspect of them: they’re, above all, damned good stories, well told. He’s long since gone now. Concerning poetry, he once told me he’d rather write about cabbages than loftier subjects, which he found rather dreary. It inspired me to write this haiku.
Forlorn cabbages
In the refrigerator
Silent witnesses
Somewhere, in the moonless night
Somewhere, in the moonless night,
The silent wail of long ago stars
Pointlessly lingers.
Somewhere, ancient explosions
Race to still, cold nowhere.
Somewhere, the bottom turtle
Shrugs.
Somewhere, a scrap of love
Slowly warms
The wild boundlessness.
All the while, I think of you,
And dream of dreaming.
exiles child 