haiku fresh and hot
for you and for the lady
vinegar with that?

I read about the how and the why
and the where and the when
of love
and rarely see plain words
that show the range of reaction
of love made manifest
giddy night time
singing to the moon
babbling inanities
to all the friends
who make time to listen,
scribbled words
as blind offerings never posted,
damp misery
crying to a nighttime pillow
salt tears falling
into your morning coffee
and nighttime soup
and the worst
looking up at the window
where the lover lives
deaf and blind to you below
and yet I know
all those
who have been out on that limb
and have come back
are rarely defeated
and quickly set out
to once again gamble
in the crapshoot called love

Then,
on waking
out in the early light
running and running
the familiar curves and sweeps of the road
markers for my discipline
the rise and falls of the hills
signals to my heart and lungs
to do what I willed.

Runners know that will,
It says that you are king
it says you will not fail.
I am, I am
A needle needing North
And finding it,
Exulting,
I am, I am.

Now,
on waking
I lie waiting for the ache in my back
To take over
To tell me there is a new day
And like yesterday,
And the day before,
I will hurt.
I am, I am.

My father never knew a father's love
and was crippled for ever.
I do not remember a hug
I do not remember a nighttime story
where the good guys promised peace till morning
Perhaps he did and was so diffident
that changelings were born
and so different that false memories were created
and no love ever lived

The sky is very tired
rain weeps down the dusty trees
night will comfort all

It is the last of the night
and the first light of the day
brings wake-up time
to the birds in the bushes;
their songs,
tentative at first
the notes quiet and seeking
take form,
one with the other,
questing and melding,
point and counterpoint
till the moment,
when strong in will
and together in purpose,
the chorus swells
the light brightens
and together they bring
the dawn to a full day

The notes of the
oud and piano
meet and meld
each bringing to the other
strength and direction
they take
separate paths and
come back to
reflect against each other
in such a way
never rejoicing
but constant and melancholy
insistent vespers
to mark
the beginning of the end of our day

The autumn harvest
berries of rowan thorn elder and yew
winter food for the birds

The autumn harvest
rowan thorn elder and yew
winter food for birds

Two white balloons fly
the fast west wind blows them where?
over the roofs goodbye

it's the end of a long day
here in Chicago
weather made giddy by spring
with snow blown horizontal  by a west wind
bright sunlight made stop-action by scudding clouds
then more snow
the day then grew older and more responsible
calmed down to quiteness
the sparrows come out to gossip

We are there
all of us,
poets, wannabe poets, others
in the shade waiting for the light
of the newly known,
to shine on us and give us function

at best
with a name,
or
in the circle of…………
an associate of………
mistress of……………..

this light will fade
and we’re gone
to live with our memories.

We were almost there.

it was only yesterday
it seems that  I was young
well younger
and on a Maine island
leaping from rock to rock
along  the shoreline
no fear just jumping
free
a youth still in spirit
and for a while in body
Now
in retrospect
that was more than yesterday ago
the memory exists
the body follows faintly and not so much
the mirror of desire does not lie
and my body is sadly fain
yesterday is yesterday
and fixed so for ever

Today,
I talked to my daughter on Skype,
She
in Chicago, about to leave for her trip to China
a veteran now of this journey,
but still needing dad
to tell her where the baggage scale was,
and then to tell her what to do
when that scale is with me here in London.
The suitcase to be lightened,
the impossibility of throwing anything out.
Dad. I need all my makeup.
Dad. I need all my cut-offs.
Dad .OK. I will be reasonable.
Gentle logic at a five thousand mile remove.
Memories now of her as a three year old,
She,
many years ago in her bath,
water as cool as she would demand,
and playing submarines and holding her breath,
and of the same three year old,
fascinated with ***** and entering that word
on my keyboard and unleashing
**** by the screenfull.
She,
now, off again, her third trip for full immersion
in a culture in her language of choice
her middle school graduation speech in Chinese.
She,
much much more accomplished than I was,
much much more mature than I was,
knowing what she wants to do with her life,
her school already picked out,
and here I am, her dad,
She,
asks for nothing except my love
which seems enough for now,
and so I will give her all that she asks for,
patrimony at it’s purest.

Narcissus weeps tears
old day dies new day reborn
two pools at midnight

She was always
always so cute.
She never stopped smiling,
she never stopped eating,
and she never,
ever was mute

She liked her baths cold
not to say frigid,
an ice cube or two was nice,
banana was good, strawberry was better,
but what really inspired her was rice.

Fascinated couples would look
from wherever they were,
as into her meal she would start,
a benison here, a benison there
for her moving rice was an art.

And so I leave you
a short tale of a child,
who took up a lot of our space.
She never was meek and
she never was mild,
A gift of a girl by God’s grace.

I sit at my desk
and look around at my walls
and see eight pieces of art,
all bar two from artists I knew
who were friends in my early days in manhattan,
the city where we were all poor
and came from different places,
miguel from buenos aires in argentina who spoke only spanish
a political refugee who feared being disappeared
and now had a tiny bed in a tiny loft and painted on canvas
I have two of his works
a cactus plant with beautiful plum sized multicolored flowers
and the other entitled the thirsty horse that looks like a demented snarling dog with slanted eyes and teeth to spare but benign enough to be loved by my daughter when aged three,
horsy horsy was her good friend.
katsu from osaka in japan who waited table in a sushi bar
and painted his vision on board,
the desert with flowering saguaro cacti with three tiny men in three tiny cars driving anywhere and nowhere
with three stuck-on labels -
namely: the baby of kangaroo - levi 501 - pronunciation
all significant to him no doubt and guiding us through his vision of pale blue wash with applique.
john from Cleveland, his work the prodigal son with father limned in profile, dull white, dull ochre and matt black
with a mid ground horizontal bar of pinky red for reference,
strongly emotive without shouting.
next is jennifer now in arizona, her work a **** with a weird perspective very red embouchure lips and red ******* and a red scarf with a walled city behind. I love it and can’t say why;
behind an abstract my parents bought at my pleading from a hungry american now mine to ponder and wonder if it is a crucifixion california style,
maybe jesus on acid, I never did find out exactly.
in front a huge print the laughing frogs by karel appel, I bought it from a friend dying of aids, it had no future in his life  and I liked it a lot especially when oncoming death priced it down
and here the odd one out, a big silkscreen print with colour
at my right hand, eye line high and bought in paris france with teenager money, all I had,
a very old woman dressed to the nines, hat with flowers and a little veil,
fox stole, big jet earrings and a steady gaze eyes front, sitting in a café with her right hand near her glass of dark red framboise, enigmatic smile forever; I have never been able to read the signature.
and the last from andrew of chicago a big bold watercolor entitled dusk nyc, company art sold when the company went bankrupt and I was happy to buy it, a painting of the canyon streets of manhattan with cars and cabs and people all like chess knights jumping for position with no check in sight.
These are all my long time favorites,
my go-to works when I am tired and need solace. they never fail to please.

dark fire,
images on my eyes
are they real?
I see the road where I walk,
broken cobbles
they cut my feet
my blood the color of a rose in summer
I walk because I have to.
I dream??

You should know
that death has
many hats
and no honor
and you,
believing yourself inviolate
are his target.

Death covets you
and shining bright
in your own belief system
envisaging unlimited days
memorable sunsets
and a forever future,
are a prize catch

He will approach
smiling
and tip his hat
and you respond cheerily
and too late know
you are marked
for no tomorrow

He wins again
and you go with him
as you have to.

It is so written

Death gathers us up
In manageable packets
we know our sell-by dates
are strictly enforced and
unknown to each other
we line up to go
to that final place.

Now?? we ask.

We fervently avow
Our belief in god
hoping for a last minute reprieve.
when do we go?
how do we get there?
Is there a real difference
between destinations?
As dead do we have rights?
is it a democracy?
is it really a one way ticket?
can I be on standby?
what if I don’t like it?
can I come back
and have another go?


As yet I have
no answers to your questions.
I will keep you posted.

walking down the alley
midday walk with my dog
Hey he says
nice day isn't it
he's a chicago native obviously
it's forty degrees
and he's in shorts, a T shirt
and flipflops
yes I say
wearing my gilet and heavy coat
it's nice with the sun out,
summer soon he says
and it'll be
too damm hot again

woof spirit of wolf
tails wags not sign of amity
choker chain needed

my daughter confounds
so much smarter than I was
am I proud or what

this easter sunday
our family brunch together
pay with dad's blue card

a short short short skirt
not even handkerchief size
cabin crew aghast

And so it came to pass that I was offered a floor in a room in the elevator winding mechanism shack which was on a corner of the roof of the Edicifio Ganem. This was an elegant nine story tower that had been built in 1948 in the middle of the old city in Cartagena de Indias in Colombia. The rent was a dollar a day and I was entirely responsible for me and mine. The elevator worked sometimes; if it did not it was a long slog around and around and up and up the interior staircase till one got to the top.
The views from the roof were superb in all directions. The sunsets were shared with God.  When the trade winds blew it was “cool” meaning the breeze evaporated your sweat. It was never less than 90 degrees whatever season of the year. In the rainy season it rained and for those people from more temperate countries the rain was a wonder.  On one occasion I was caught out in it and survived only by steepling my fingers over my mouth so that I could breathe. But it cleaned the streets wonderfully and even washed the cucurachas away in the drains for a while until they returned no doubt well refreshed after their swim.
There were drawbacks of course, chief amongst these were these same cucurachas which are the insect kingdom’s equivalent of ninja warriors. These four inch invincibles could sprint, walk up walls and across ceilings, swim and fly. They were also difficult to **** since their carapaces were thick and shoe resistant. I found in the end a delicate touch with a mallet was best. If one hit too hard the body would burst and a mess would ensue; not hard enough and the nuisance would scuttle away.  Once killed the body would be kicked aside and the night staff cleaner ants would move in and eat the husk clean.
Again being entirely responsible for me and mine meant that I had to buy my own bedstead. Iron of course with iron legs and metal springs and a mattress all brand new and all hopefully bedbug free. The iron legs would each stand in a can of kerosene which was the ant and cucuracha moat. I was late to this concept of insect defense and only adapted it when I woke up one night with a cucaracha in my mouth having a drink.  I sought advice from my “landlord and ”landlady” and was told to go to a man in the mercado - market -  who sold empty cans; I had always wondered about this obviously niche trade and was very happy to go there and be advised on the right width and depth to create the necessary defence. Four cans and a litre of kerosene and I could sleep free from attack.

tints of irony
shade the illuminescence
of the doge's death

her muzzle shoves snow
sneezing out all the crystals
no snowshoes needed

flower in her hair
enigmatic smile for you
forever in your dream

cuneiform script
marks cut into a stone slab
history today

the lead couple chime
quivering noses smell musk
the ***** makes for cover

Today I ate fresh baked bread
crackly crust,smooth dense chewy texture

After one bite I thought.
perhaps some butter, marmalade too

The butter spreads easily
the little holes all fill up nicely

then thickly comes the bitter marmalade
which glues the top slice on

A two handed squish to firm it up..............

a second bite

Good thinking

It comes from the heart, he said,
Really!

Really? she said,
one eyebrow raised in disbelief.

Her mouth seconded this opinion,
a firm, tight  line.

She turned away,
this encounter over.

Game. Set and Match

My small grass back lawn
flooded out by heavy rain
will plant rice later

I have a relationship
with my god,
he knows I'm not perfect
and allows me the leeway
to make mistakes,
making up for them
is my job,
he gives me guidance
if I ask,
gives me the get-go
if I'm right
and a go-round
if I'm wrong,
we're in a long term relationship,
it works well for both of us.

sharp green spikes stick up
telling us to be patient
spring is coming soon

Today in the park
new smells enrapture my dog
again and again

my pet dog emma
a schnauzer from end to end
her barks shatter glass

two eyes four paws tail
puppy wiggles end to end
happy to see you

my pet dog emma
giving and loving her all
too hard to resist

emma trending  now
her internet fame now real
sleep is the answer

my pet dog emma
ten city blocks is not too far
the rain is not cold

hitchhiking from Rome
dressed from head to toe in white
woman driver stops

hitchhiking at night
dressed in white from head to toe
woman driver stops

When my daughter is sad
she makes  cupcakes
the series of taste tests add up to twelve
and she is diligent.
I don't mind,
all the necessary food groups
are there for her
and the crumbs will do fine for me.

words click in my head
liars dice in a barroom cup
spill fact or fiction

Happily adrift
at Carnival time
buffeted by babes
and tycoons in wine
I was brought up all standing
by a voice from the blue
that solicited quite rudely

Haiku for you?

words thrown all about
egos and allies in thrall
no one really cares

His mum was ever so pleased
he took care to be born
at half past seven,
after her last shift
on Friday.
At the sweet factory

His mum was ever so pleased
that he refused her breast
and took to Auntie
and mum went to work
on Monday.
At the sweet factory

His mum was ever so pleased
when he walked to his school
the by-himself boy
and mum went to work
as usual.
At the sweet factory

His mum was ever so pleased
when he left her life
the now-married man
and mum went to work
to live her life.
At the sweet factory

His mum was ever so pleased
when he left this life
to talk to his god
and mum went to work
for now and for ever.
At the sweet factory