Guest Post – Two haiku by Paul Spielman, my dad.
If I say ten things,
nine will not be heard and one
will make someone sad.
...
I walked on the shore
conversing with bygone souls,
names long forgotten.
I Adjust
I adjust
to no one
in my daydream of today
but you, so still,
your eyelids sealed
in sleep—
my milk bubble,
my mochi,
my softly stirring Lu.
Under the Morning
You forced the sunrise
on me. I’d rather
be asleep
but since we’re up
let’s open the shade—
watch the passing storm
harass the trees.
Streetlights still burn
against the gray light
blowing up the street.
Opposite us,
a light clicks on—
a neighbor
about to leave.
As she hurries to her car,
wind full in her hair,
you decide
enough with the scenery—
time to eat.
The cat agrees.
Just In
A dry leaf,
a baby asleep,
a kettle thinking steam,
a pot
of steeping tea,
the mail
you set out
for me.
In the Last Hour of Light
Ending the world
the way we did
felt good—a slow flood
of sleep
after walking ourselves
weak—nothing between
the square of sunlit rest
the window marks
on the bed
for us and softening
like a swollen stream
the moments
it meets
the sea.
Along my Morning Freeways
The Plein Airs brush
eucalyptus trees
along my morning
freeways, bathe me
in an orange light
more sunset
than sunrise.
My windshield’s too wide
to focus on
from the inside
but I’ve got a song
just right
for the top of this curve
where the road
hits the sky—
fine with the cars ahead,
the road,
the yellow lines.
Ritual
Under a half moon,
hair all leaf-blown,
I see you home.
In through the window
we watch the sky
unfold. I listen
to stories about stars
against your arm.
Watercolor Earth
—an ode to Ascendosphere 42 by Eva Lundsager
Up the earth split
and out spit
a fount of steam.
Though where it rose
it seemed the toes
of two feet
almost met
the effect was really
clouds of steam
and the ominous
color of wet cement
with the same pooling
tarnished silver gets—
all this event
and no wonder
we let slip
our molten core.
Not a Shadow to Scare
Allow for a boy
on his wide range
who fashions lassos
from stripped ostrich feathers.
Even on his slow mount, the high heat
makes life hard to see.
Noon, and the pheasants
(fat thoughts on the Pampas)
slip up suddenly,
in twos
and threes,
noosed
and so easily.
Catching a Ride
In no rush
to hold up the sky,
we lull the low hills
into folding the afternoon
across the road home.
Later, we’ll collect fog
in the valley below,
but for now I’m working
on floating my hand
on the currents
outside my window.