Haiku Kukai 6

Global Haiku • Millikin University • Spring 2016

until three in the morning

my beautiful children
half mine . . .
all hers

the museum window
a stone statue

new book
lemonade and tea
on the porch

soft jazz
floats up the stairs
the parent's party

living in the fishbowl
I cannot help
but do nothing

salmon lips
for them
I swim upstream

morning star
a dry cough
startles the cock

late for a meeting
I reach up to touch
the pine needles

follow the yellow brick road
to your next adventure
sun painted side walk

summer fast approaching
I find my fat jeans
smugly in the hamper

flushed out . . .
the little worm
inches to safety

clasping her ruby necklace
a personality
as dry as her martini

summer sunset
he kisses me
the bed of his truck

rainbow thread
hanging loose on her jacket
I can't help but pull

his flowers
the last art he left
for us

spring evening walk
both of us ignoring
the other's limp

sister sleepover
shit talking parents
some things never change

they didn't know
I used to bowl

at twenty years old
her mom drops her off
at the dentist

out of the hospital
a cigarette to celebrate
cancer free

broken stump
a fence
runs through it

spring breeze
her toes covered
by the mud

locked eyelids
no amount of kisses
can wake her

I hold the coffee cup
on my belly
warming both sides

ferris wheel blues
watching the children
watch the show

Christmas Eve
another hotel room's
digital fireplace

her suddenly still
body in bed
summer stars fall

spring sunshine
we hold hands
shoulders burning

rose petals fall
revealing scars
nobody else could see

birthday princess
cant even make it
to the strike of twelve . . .

picking clover
she leans over
her pregnant belly

off the path
he pulls me close
the sun warms my back

broken pieces
slowly picking up each
strand of hair

two mugs
of ice cream
the old couple

in the dark
bare feet across snow
hauling the night's wood

first touch
I can hear your heartbeat
matching mine

morning glory morning

humid and moist
bug bites all over
connect the dots

tending to her son's
chipped knees
Mrs. Potts

blood sweat and apples
she slaves in the kitchen
peace offering

a single purple weed
hand picked
for me

rental shoes
one size too big
slide across the hardwood

touching the cross
dangling from the mirror
as his family snoozes

holding onto you . . .
seashells coated in
wet white sand

cracked ring dish
she has no right
to still want him

open back road
a Ferrari passes
an Amish buggy

some day
an ocean could be
just around the corner

beer foam
I decide
to leave him

cool sand
nestles around my toes
a wave pecks then      recedes

another clear blue sky
what a beautiful day
to stay in bed

driving down the road
I used to turn left
now turning right

new mulch smell—
the tulips sway
back and forth

a wreck of a night
but all is well
at Sunday breakfast

saying final goodbyes,
we salute him
as he is flushed down the drain

playing in the puddles
looking forwarded
to a warm embrace

the roar of the waterfall
distracts us from the scent
dead vultures

wedding bells ring
walking past faces
only see one

h     e    r
c           i
a          g
e          h
t     ~    t

april 16
the day I realize my window
opens after all

sun on my face
reminding me
I'm where I'm meant to be

furry babies
the only ones
I can have

petting the dog
each stroke
reminds me of him

missing you
the way I know how

look into her eyes and you will see she has more in terms of glee

a breeze of spring wind
reminds me
He is always with me

black ink gone
she tries again in navy
blue sheep

fourth grade rascal
wants to know
"What's a sorority?"

the sun melting
a clown face

the brilliant sunshine
walks to class
her ivory dress

amongst the cold weather
that people have knees

I shave my legs
for a party in shorts
thank goodness

dancing with her
regret swells within me
in the morning

praying in the kitchen
she returns
all smiles

reading a children's book
learning a lesson
as an adult

creaking old bridge
one more time

wallflower girl
knows everything
says nothing

rear-view mirror
awkward eye contact

a stupid idea
her eyes light up

head out the window
smiling in the warm wind

one kiss
friends aren't
just friends anymore

sandy toes water wings

his slips
his hand into mine
the first time

stretching on the deck
human cat
on the sun-warmed two-by-fours

sitting in the bathtub
the baby tips the boat
mom's day off

small town diner
he realizes
he loves her

feet hang over
the roof

across the dinner table
                he watches the waitress

feet kicked up
her blonde hair
in a ball cap

toes tangled
in summer grass

Saturday night
watching my friends
on snap chat

hard 12 inch ball
appears in purple
on my leg

looking into
the sunshine
missing the pop fly

aimlessly walking
through the jungle
inside my head

a snail
sheds its shell
silly slug

reading Whitman
strumming a guitar

spring rain seeps
through my cracked

April shower
the rainbow umbrella
scatters sunlight

inhaling deeply
it doesn't smell like roses
his shoe

my hand reaches
toward the glowing mass
my brother runs away

on the broomstick
two broken teeth

my emotions go round
like an airport carousel
one lost bag

underneath the bed
monsters hide
broken night light

finding the courage
to be a radical
version of me

© 2016, Randy Brooks • Millikin University
All rights returned to authors upon publication.