11,041 vagabonds plus:
stars fell on Alabama
here's to better days ahead
All 17 syllables dedicated to the fine company at 'recuerda mi corazon', exclusive home of Haiku My Heart.
H Lee on her birthday
Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first knew it. In rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew on the sidewalks, the courthouse sagged in the square. Somehow, it was hotter then: a black dog suffered on a summer's day; bony mules hitched to Hoover carts flicked flies in the sweltering shade of the live oaks on the square. Men's stiff collars wilted by nine in the morning. Ladies bathed before noon, after their three-o'clock naps, and by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.
To Kill A Mockingbird
~ Harper Lee
He was dead less than a minute, confirmed by Dr. Higgenbottom, it was in all the papers, and his reawakening has spilled over into a bubbling wellspring of books, one crackpot heralded thesis titled Death On His Lunch Break, Holmesian monograms scribbled on brittle yellow paper, bearded white-coat lectures in grand marble halls throughout Europe, an unfinished clay bust sculpted by a permanently deceased arthritic octogenarian, late afternoon talk shows culminating in finger pointing, chair throwing and stitches, repeated requests for interviews, all predicated in the salient fact of what he witnessed:
He saw a white light.
He'd given his statement. It was just the one sentence.
'It was like I was hovering and was blinded by a white light and that's all I can tell you.'
He's to arrive within the hour. The scorched silver pot of coffee has just started to perk. We both cherish coffee. That was my bait. A clear glass vase of fresh yellow and violet flowers should be the first thing he sees upon entering. Two steps into the hallway he will have an unobstructed view of the firm oranges and red delicious apples in the miniature picnic basket on the scarlet-clothed kitchen table. Gave 75 cents for that quaint rufous basket from a somber, pale woman at a yard sale. I don't know if she was ever dead. I was strangely attracted to her. Wheat hair in wisps of gray, unwinking eyes. As though maybe she was my wife before we both died. It was her idea to make it a fruit basket. Was thinking of adding grapes for full prism effect. Don't know what I'll ask him beyond cream and sugar.
this island earth
Reading of the will
earthly gold inheritance
all left to the meek
As always, all 17 syllables dedicated to 'recuerda mi corazon', exclusive home of Haiku My Heart.
He pushed away the bowl of wet cement flakes drowning in milk with a circus fly on the porcelain rim ready to high dive. He complained to Olive and she shook her head in disbelief. They watched the fly flutter to the white ceiling. He saw the brown specks.
"What would you like instead?"
"Eggs. And toast." The rain pelted the diner window louder. They both looked towards the window. A vagabond in a floppy hat with rain rolling off it like a busted downspout was leaning to one side staring in, amazed at all that chrome. Counter edge, chair spindles, serving ledge with one order up between kitchen and cash register, Olive's name tag holder, shiny towering coffee urn. "And coffee."
"Black?" she asked sadly.
"Black," he replied, watching the man with water rolling off his brim. "You think he's hungry?"
He looked at Olive. He looked at the man and motioned. "I'll eat at that table over yonder. Bring the same. Same to same. And another fork."
The hat carefully placed on the peg was dripping on the black and white checkered floor even though the man wrung it like a washcloth and Olive shook it like a cocker spaniel after a bath. The man thanked her kindly.
He had four eggs, six slices of crunchless toast, two refills of coffee, black, and not once did he look up from the plate. He was in the habit of watching any food carefully. Olive, leaning on the back counter near the hot urn warming her slim pale hands, watched the benefactor, finishing breakfast long ago, unable to make out one-word conversation and vagabond nods, thoughtfully following the swirling rise from his cigarette, imagining it smoking down a high diving circus fly.
sleek buoyant triplets
comfort wayward mariners
gentle sacred hearts
Let's Play was created by artist Eric VanRaemdonck, a dear and talented man. Eric passed away last Monday after a mighty battle against leukemia.
He was always generous and encouraging when commenting on stories I wrote.
R.I.P. Eric. One more brilliant star now makes its eternal home in the night sky.
out of mind
He was dead before she heard the thump on the floor. That's my guess. No ID. Only thing in his pockets is this slip of paper with...here it is...get this, Charlie...'avoid Spinoza at all costs.' Looks like the ink pen exploded after that. The Grand Tour started three blocks away, not in a straight line of course, diving off the rim of a wine goblet spread eagle, somersaulting over a series of shot glasses after breaking a window out of the Simmons' place. Mrs. Simmons said he was red-eyed. Let's see. I wrote it down. Wait. Oh, here it is - no biggy. He called her Mrs. cinnamon. 'Twirled his hands when he said it.' Warm wine gestures. Actually demanded champagne iced in a wicker basket and complained her ice cube trays were empty in the freezer. Quite attractive woman. Beautiful elfin eyes. Walnut-brown hair. Told her he wanted chignon champagne whatever that is. Then he waltzed in the unlocked back door here, two in the morning out of the chill of the night, and went in search of slamming cupboard doors to hook up with a cooking sherry IV. Muddy footprints right out of a cheap detective dime novel on the counter where he tried to curl up like handcuffed Houdini in the cupboard with the bottle I guess.
Stumbling into the other room looking for a night cap I figure that trembling parrot up on the ceiling fan startled him more than he scared it. Down boy! That's not the way you call birds? Maybe tongue clicking will drop it. I guess it'll come down eventually. Maybe it's a chignon bird. No? Well, it sure the hell ain't a magpie. Anyway she heard the thud as she descended the stairs wearing nothing but a white robe, her hair bobbing in the back. I wish I could remember what they call that bobbing hair girls wear. Look under the sheet. What a wicked smile, eyes wide open, ready for his closeup. Must've been amused at that final blurred vision of ruffling blue and orange feathers as he slipped on a banana peel into the unknown. Get him the hell out of here.
As always, all 17 syllables thrown against the wall for 'recuerda mi corazon', exclusive home of haiku my heart.
Soft light, sharp focus
shadowed heart exit stage right
quiet on the set
'200 million green backs to go in search of little green men.'
'Well, I guess it proves there's water on Mars.'
'I believe its fake.'
'You know, it kinda looks like a golf ball.'
'A golf ball shot out of a cannon.'
'Out of a what?'
'A golf ball shot out of a cannon splintering a 37 year old heartwood ricocheting off the side of a one-horse barn that needs painting through a cow's underpass speeding past a Scottish knoll slow rolling and nudged into the cup of a four-par hole by a misfit magpie scrounging for morsels.'
Tears of April wash
away! chilled sorrowful days
puddle stomping dance
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