Banding together
all these leaves decided to
follow the birds south.
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For one hundred yards
by the road, starlings were side
by side on the wire.
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Tom-tom. Tilde. Sway
back. Simmental. Braids. Red clay.
Palmetto. Linden.
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Truffles and pralines.
Gruyere. Veuve Clicquot. Crepes. Late
sunlight. Then a fire.
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Two cardinals move
up into the pines at dusk.
This is their bedroom.
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Blind Ambition got
to the end of the road and
stepped off into space.
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Cloudy all day. Poor
old sun couldn’t bear to watch
one more autumn fade.
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No fear but fear. No
story but story. And no
screwing but screwing.
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No hope but hope. No
vanity but vanity.
No us and no them.
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No church and no state
to separate. No hurry.
No worry. No fate.
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No faith but faith. No
comfort but comfort. And no
meaning but meaning.
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No war. No hell. No
inheritance. No ads. No
blind leading the blind.
(The first of five in a haiku series called Manifesto.)
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I may have been wrong
but I was wrong in all the
right ways for my life.
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If they take the Bible
literally, it may TAKE
THEM—literally.
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Blind ambition goes
to the beach. Never knows that
it is a nude beach.
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Dogma’s bark, worse than
his bite. This old toothless hound
should be put to sleep.
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Discovery leads
to exploitation. Wonder
leads the other way.
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The thing is, before
you know you are reading this,
you already have.
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All through the Goddard
film, the burning bush outside
spreads its red shadow.
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We won’t know this was
the endarkenment for say
a hundred some years.
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During the dogma
days of summer—best to come
out only at night.
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Helped the worm get off
the boulder. Later thought: How
did he get up there?
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Being perfectly
wrong should not lead to acclaim
for consistency.
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Given one wish, we
wish for more wishes. Lust. What
we’re made of, by, for.
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Is there no smallest
thing? Whatever it is, can’t
you cut it in half?
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Please tell this hammer
that though my thumb has a nail
not to pound on it.
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This tempered moment—
made from all those before—not
a loss anymore.
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What’s left? Vacant lot,
traffic islands, back yards,…. Is
wilderness still here?
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Midnight burn of a
gibbous moon through box elders.
Slow wind undertones.
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Moon craves the quiet
of the empty back lot. Sun—
the glint of feathers.
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Mosey Time is a blog by Mark Mitchell that features daily postings. Most are very short and at least partly in the haiku tradition. On Sundays there may be longer pieces of writing. If you like you can subscribe to receive these as daily emails or as an RSS feed.
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