Final Kukai

Roundtable Haiku • Fall 2008

the storm
you take my hand

seeps in—
old shoes

bare branches
her hands laden
with wishes

sandwiched between
my boyfriend’s kid sisters
practicing motherhood

Allen Wrench
screwed Lefty Lucy…
she bolted

asleep in his chair
my grandfather
looks harmless

diet food:
a small sliver
of cheesecake

arch rival school
balloon tumbles past
the headlights

a candle’s flame
wanting only more

on Atkins
I load up the potatoes

the water
in my lava lamp
tastes terrible

oscura selva
rusted barbed wire
tangled under leaves

forbidden fruit
the apple in his hand
in hers

brick wall
behind my eyes
made of pumpkings

watching the news
on thanksgiving day
unable to swallow

old sneakers
he starts to run

sock drawer
he finds
the ones with holes

Thanksgiving marathon:
seven more
assignments to complete

left field—
tightening the laces
of his father's glove

inlaws visit—
their dog pees
on the carpet

With her hippie parents

baby's first snow
all bundled up
but crying all day

Wendy’s, 1 A.M.
I teach him
to write rengay

in the thunderstorm
the sprinkler
waters the sidewalk

porch swing
in the wind

my aunt eats another
piece of fruitcake

six hours
and three pots of tea
…four chapters read

walking back from class
the first snow
—in my moccasins!

early morning sunrise
a single tire track
on the snowy road

dead flowers
around the stems—
a pink ribbon

electronic voting
more time reading the instructions
than the ballot

Christmas present
For a soldier’s wife
A government car

church bus trip
billboard after billboard:

purple frogs
on the paper

a fight between lovers
she left
for the last time

the same birthday candles
three years
in a row

tick tock
fixed again
Grandpa’s clock

exchanging Rowling
for Joyce

cold rainy morning
I coo like my mother
at the cat

clogged drain
I pull out
a roach

game day
crows circle
the football field

out of love and
washed up
Mom’s first new date

first snow
all the saints gather
for a Christmas carol

the homeless man

the church service
suddenly silent

candle light . . .
come morning a snow
erases everything


© 2008, Randy Brooks • Millikin University
All rights returned to authors upon publication.