Category: A Daily Poem

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changeable weather:
leaves turned, facing the sky,
licking a storm's winds.

– a pseudo-haiku.

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In Minnesota,
sometimes, with some clouds above,
the summer feels cool.

– a pseudo-haiku.

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all my possessions
sit and slumber uselessly
and they possess me

– a pseudo-haiku.

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The airplane plunged down
gently grasping the runway
while night sky turned gray

– a pseudo-haiku.

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Each dawn follows night.
Sometimes a bit of cloud drifts,
caught and torn on trees.

– a pseudo-haiku.

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The sun heats the world,
And even ghosts look for shade.
Lost souls tug it down.

– a pseudo-haiku.

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The Ilsan moon set.
Under my feet, the world moved.
Elsewhere a moon rose.

– a pseudo-haiku.

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A yellow moon rose
over Olympia's firs,
out by Rainier to the east.
Aging hippies
and their kids
and grandkids
and a few great-grandkids
sat in a circle
composed of memories
and regrets
and the sweep of time
singing old Bob Dylan songs.
The moon's light grew bold
and enjoined the night to listen.

– a free-form poem.

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Really, every day?
Yes, a poem every day.
Sometimes a dull one.

– a pseudo-haiku.

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The sun is up high.
Blackberries suggest futures
and remember pasts.

– a pseudo-haiku.

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A first night, morning
unfolding in Oregon,
the sunflowers watch.

– a pseudo-haiku.

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"Hi kids. Today I have to tell you
some important, surprising news.
I am leaving Korea."
I look on with sadness.
Some of them are shocked.
But one young man
simply says,
"Okay.
Bye."

– a nonnet.

There are 2 types of projects:
Those that must be done…
And those I'd like to get done.
The former get done.
The latter may get done, someday.
Maybe.
Sometimes I prefer to watch the trees on the hillside.

Now I've boxed my books,
they're out of both sight and mind.
I study the shelves.

at the edge of mind
slipping into perception
electric fan's whirr

Humidity puts fog on glass. I think
the summer rains have coated atmosphere
with dim regrets, unspoken colloquies.

swathes of blue or green will set free
the rising tree, maybe clean
air unseen.

My soul is a slate
upon which fate inscribes lines:
curves and cool whitespace.

The sky, simplest blue;
the rain having fled, clouds too;
but things are clean, cool.

[daily log: walking, 1km]

The world suddenly turns blue and then fades
and lurking shades surge on through
night, made new

such melancholy
telling my students I'll go
their looks of surprise

the monsoon might rest
for a moment: hello sun;
hello brooding heat

I lay prepared like poultry: grist for knives
or scalpels held by surgeons, mentally
relinquishing a grip on life, unknown
events awaiting, ghostlike now and gone.

Eight thirteen AM
Vast piles of my own past sit
drinking atmosphere