Monday, August 29, 2011

it's all yours, shorty

Oh, the ridiculousness of it all. To lose the business in a poker game. The shame seeps out of my pores as thick as water pours from a rat-clogged downspout. I give the fat little man the deed to my life up to now, exit by a color-drained alley, hiding my embarrassment with a dry umbrella like a neurotic movie star dodging flashbulbs sneaking out for a sack of donuts, and ride away on a stolen bike used only once by a humorless hair-bun widow carrying a little trembling dog in a wicker basket. Squeak squeak squeak.

Red Umbrella
~Christopher Shay

Friday, August 26, 2011

foolish heart haiku

Old heart sinking spell
Foolish adolescent love
Some just never learn

17 unadorned syllables in white for 'recuerda mi corazon,' exclusive home of Haiku My Heart

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

happy birthday, Doris

She's a triple threat.
She sings. She acts. She writes music. She's a devoted daughter, sister, wife and mother. Wait. That's four more. A total of seven. What's that called? No, wait. Make it eight....

She's a beloved friend.

The Very Thought Of You
~Nat King Cole

Sunday, August 21, 2011

what's so funny? Oh.

Usually dapper
Mr. sartorial starch
Forgot his britches

Monday, August 15, 2011


The father finally got the boy to eat breakfast before bustin' out the screen door each morning for school. Now there was that aggravating spoon scraping against the breakfast bowl of corn flakes resembling a muffled blacksmith nailing shoes. The dog didn't mind the sound. It was a welcome call to sit and unblinkingly stare up at the boy by his kitchen chair waiting for soggy leftovers in yellow milk.

The father sat down opposite. A handwritten note before him from a teacher detailed a lack of seriousness in the boy's performance. The blacksmith fell silent when he saw the letter and the father's sorrowful eyes gazed at him. The dog stood on all fours as the boy lowered the leftovers.

'Let me tell you, son', he started in lecture mode. He stopped and hunched his shoulders, leaned back and spoke softly instead.
'There is a wholeheartedness that we all must possess to get by in this life, my boy. Suppose Washington had fidgeted about The Crossing and claimed "Yeah I was gonna do that yesterday but", or if Revere had tacked a handbill on a cork board at a ladies auxiliary arts and crafts meeting mentioning three paragraphs down a foe is approaching, or you've heard of great actors phoning it in, suppose Olivier had recited flowing Shakespeare in a cracking voice from his friendly local gas station phone booth, or a yawning Van Gogh lopping on a streak-less night sky with a roller'.

A yellow school bus squeaked to a stop outside. The boy shifted in his chair.
'Or Amelia Earhart. Suppose she only daydreamed of flight as she arched paper airplanes across the classroom that dropped into floor vents forever lost'.

The boy stood. He looked forward to school now. No airplanes, rather spitballs to be launched and adorning a vaulted ceiling, something he did wholeheartedly. And Tatyana, the girl in overalls, hair the color of straw rubber-banded to a ponytail, large birthmark on right cheek making her a target for torment, would smile at him, a fellow misfit.

He looked back once at the front door as the bus gear-striping grudgingly pulled away. The father waved four fingers like a talking sock puppet without the benefit of a sock with two black eyes painted on. The dog sighed deeply, still so hungry.

Friday, August 12, 2011


Dose of medicine
Sad songs peel back hidden blues
Lost heart healed anew

photo: Central Park musician by Petrit (2008)

17 notes played for a little sonata known as 'recuerda mi corazon,' exclusive home of Haiku My Heart

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

my shining hour

Remember all those summer-kissed nights? When I held your hand quickly climbing the stairs to the balcony at the Old Theater for heart pounding solitude but we actually watched all those old films instead? Remember, that one, Public Enemy, and how we both Cagney-speaked back at the screen, and in the end we froze at how he met his end? We'd sit there unaware the air-conditioned morgue-of-a-theater was empty, and exiting out into the close quiet-street nights, damn, how those yellow aisle lights illuminated your luscious movie star legs.

When I spun that Coltrane album, I remember the faces you made when you didn't get it, his sound, but you do recall how My Shining Hour made you rise slowly and the way you simmered about, your hips, even your fingertips lit up? You took it home. And once I stood underneath your window, watching your shadow dance performance for the ages behind those thin curtains, and your mom walked in and caught you. And when dogs barked I ran, not seeing you for a long time, and she sold that worn Coltrane for ten cents at a yard sale to give to kids who'd never eaten in their lives, and you cried when you told me, but I kissed those tears dry.

And whenever I took you home, those long goodbyes on your front porch resembling first-time hellos? Hello. Remember your old man - hell, that same song and dance - how we instinctively knew he was peeking, and sure enough, if a certain amorous young man circled within ten feet of you he played lighthouse keeper and flipped on that damn light bright enough to startle that Russian dog orbiting above?
I do.

Summer Evening
~Edward Hopper

Friday, August 5, 2011

woman reading

Whispered immersion
lovely damsel rapt in words
fluttering heart prose

5 by 7 by 5. Follow those paces with a flashlight and sidekick and you'll find the little hidden treasure known as 'recuerda mi corazon,' exclusive home of Haiku My Heart

photo: Marilyn Monroe by unknown

Monday, August 1, 2011

windmill ghost

Fury windmill chase
Cornered wooden clockwork gears
It's alive!...demise

Old Wind Mill
photo by Skip Hunt.
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