Exhausted Haiku


There must be a word somewhere

for this kind of tired

bone-weary does not come close


Painted fingers, broken nails

offer testament

to a long day’s creation



Feet ache, hips hurt, and knees too

but still the roses

offer their heady perfume


Listening to his snoring


from the other room

jealousy invades my heart



The soft blankets and pillows

call to me to rest

head on pillow, sleep descends


Good night!

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Beach at Sunrise

Salt and fish and sand
gritting on gray planks
and old men in faded jeans
watching lines in the water
and herons diving
from pier to waves to old boats
listing in dunes, unused
since anyone can remember
and the sun, red red red
streaming across
Carolina in the morning

from a prompt at First Fifty


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Shared Sorrow

Sun between morning showers

sparkles falling drops

tears from heaven matching mine

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May 1

Gather nuts and hawthorn branches,

Build a fire and pick a posy,

Dance with ribbons ’round the pole,

wash your face in the morning dew.


The first of summer has opened its eyes,

the world is fresh and new a-borning,

It’s May, it’s May, the birds all sing,

and the lark flies high this morning!

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Siren Call

I hear them calling me to leave this place and drive to town,
To listen to their eager words and laughter, to hear the news
Of who did what and when and to whom it was done and why.
I can almost hear their words, tumbling over each other in excitement,
their laughter ringing out like the bells in the church tower,
Singing over and over, “Come! Come and join us!
Hear what we have to say! Tell us your news!”
I almost give in to the temptation to wash my garden-dirty hands,
Sleek back my hair and shed my work-worn jeans,

But I resist.
There are chokeholds of bindweed to remove from the lilies,
And the petunias need watering. Tiny weeds sprout between
The parsley and dill and the dogs have scattered the mulch
That beds the lavender. I plod on
with my watering cans and dirty hands, and for a moment
settle on my haunches to listen to another song—
The honeybees working the persimmon bloom above my head,
The bumbling bee on the pink spirea, and the clatter of my husband’s tools
As he repairs, once again, the ailing mower.
The din from town disappears; I hear the slosh of water
falling on thirsty ground, and in my head the words of this poem
Find their timid way.

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Looking Back

On my way out this morning
across the ridge and around
the end of the world turn
I looked in my rear view mirror
and saw what I was leaving behind.

It is not easy to keep going
when I know that behind me
the dew is soft on bending grass,
the birds are calling from nests,
turkeys herd their young,

tomatoes hang ripe for picking,
dill and basil are ready for harvest,
and flowers turn their heads,
just as I did,
to see what was left behind.

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When One Leaves

The leaving is quick, easy:

what remains behind,

messy, unfinished, and raw.

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