11,041 vagabonds plus:
little finger wrapped
mistaken forsaken heart
just your faithful fool
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Haiku My Heart
by George Baris
She's probably heard it so much. You know, about her eyes. How beautiful and luminous, and how you can not turn away. She does not roll her eyes in disbelief or monotony, nor look away herself. Her lucid pupils are intelligent, good-natured, and she's no-nonsense, direct to the point, like her straight nose. My goal is to say something just pithy enough for her to smile without looking away, and my heart flutters when she genuinely laughs. The doctors have ordered me not to talk, not to rise, but from my bedroom window of this thatched cottage I welcome her approach like the saged Moon peeking through the raining willows on an indigo evening. She's not proud - takes no interest in her own reflection, yet in conversation, is never careless or unkind, and is reflective in thought to my own quietness. She's tender as I've observed her small hands restlessly straighten and flatten the quilt. I bequeath all my books for those hands, for those eyes, and I shall know my daughter will one day become a fine woman.
image: Duane Michals
No lions, lambs no
Sun-swept landscape, dew icing
Full heart, blessed sneezes
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Haiku My Heart
painting: Forbes Lane
by Travis Ivey
I had this job. I won't bore you with what it was all about because you wouldn't understand. Let's just say I was hired because I had the right implement. I carried it like a tenor saxophone in a velvet-lined case all clean and scratch-free. Set it down right next to my chair as the man with Peter Lorre eyes wearing a white shirt and tie with greasy armpits in human resources asked me questions listed off a yellow sheet. He was funny looking. At first, for some unknown reason, this little man in human resources wore a red helmet with a chin strap, you know, like one of those guys under the big tent preparing to be shot out of a cannon, off course, crashing into the part-time cotton candy vendor. He'd snap the chin strap, unsnap it, then fastened it over and over during the interview - hollow sounding click like in an empty warehouse. I told him I had my own tool and was qualified, but he just looked over the sheet of questions with those crazy bug-eyes as though I was a dangerous felon.
I'd go around tightening and recalibrating, and I wore a real nice suit everyday. And then one day - I think it was a Tuesday - I saw the little man in the helmet go whizzing by overhead at 37 miles per hour, and he'd yell at me to speed up, and I'd shout back (just about the moment he goes head first into the wooden storage bunker) I would just take my tool and quit. And it would be like when you was a kid playing football in a vacant lot, and it was your football, you'd take your football and up and leave, all the kids standing around, their lips parted in the shape of circles because there'd be two hours of light left, so they'd just stand there disbelieving as you faded away across the field and the only thing they could do was get some big rocks and bust windows at the rusty factory until it was dark and their big sisters yelled it was dark like they didn't know.
image ~ Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison
ode to a young woman
No matter, the color of your lovely eyes.
When they met mine, sometimes fleeting away as you blushed, meeting once again, the kind and sweet sunswept radiance from your gentle heart, was the highlight of my day.
Best of Luck as you seek the road to your brilliant career, B.
the shadow client
Sherlock Holmes, sitting in the solitary deep-cushioned chair at 221B, aimed square down the barrel of the pistol targeting his comrade at the door.
"My dear Watson, I would never", he laughed. Watson, blood drained from head, fell into the wooden chair of the cherry desk scarred by wax droppings and chemical soup stains. "Easy, my friend, you've faced far worse in war and peace".
"I've become quite brittle in my old age, Holmes", he replied, a smile forming in the last four words, "and perhaps resembling Moriarty", he laughed nervously. He took out a clean white handkerchief to wipe his forehead, but stopped as he gazed on an open letter and yellow envelope tucked in-between some empty test tubes. The Detective followed his gaze. He lowered his voice. "Read it if you would be so kind, Watson".
Holmes watched mouthing words as Watson scanned the addressed envelope, then read four pertinent lines...
Dear Mr. Holmes:
I know not where else to turn in my hour of despair. I must seek your assistance as dark shadows haunt me incessantly. I shall be at Camby's Pub, rear table, at six tonight if that is satisfactory with you, Sir.
I am to be murdered.
...and looked towards the curtained window just as his companion completed the last line of the singular note.
"When did you receive this"?
"Today. You see..dropped off in person".
"How do you know?"
"No postage, Watson", he replied impatiently.
"Why did she just not just have Mrs. Hudson show her up?"
"Shy perhaps". He was silent for many minutes starring at the ceiling, hands prayerful at tight lips. He turned to a heavy-eyelid Watson and whispered, "Do you have your pistol, Watson, and will you accompany me?"
Two derbies and wraps hung from the wooden coat tree in the Camby Pub on London's darkest street, made no more welcome by gaslight, pale faceless people coming and going, walking in straight lines, coughing but no talking, and daring not to look left or right. Watson was comforted by both steel companions, and he thought maybe it was more Holmes than the one-shot wonder at the ready in his jacket pocket. The two men ignored their foamed pints and waited one half-hour past six, Holmes rubbing his hands and chuckling frequently, Watson impatient, wanting to drink but knowing better. Holmes spoke.
"Did you notice the envelope the letter arrived by?"
"Arrived by? No".
"Printed. Envelope from an entirely mismatched stationery. And clumsy block letters."
"Written by someone else, not..a woman's hand..".
Watson was silent, and waited. "What is your guess, Holmes?"
"You know I never guess, Watson", he said, shaking his head disappointingly, "we've clearly been drawn away from Baker Street. There is maybe one point I haven't decided on.."
"But you've told me nothing"!
He started to explain, but looking over Watson's shoulder towards the front window, raspily cried, "Watson! He's moved away! Your pistol! The game's afoot"! Two pints spilled forward as the two bolted past the confused, aproned proprietor, and going out the door Holmes pulled Watson's shoulder down just in time to avoid flying lead. Watson returned fire into the night, running the best he could after Holmes. Rounding the walk onto Baker Street, Holmes stopped and held Watson back with outstretched arm.
"Look there", Holmes pointed up towards their rooms. A candled light was dancing between the three bay windows. The two reached the stairs and strode up two steps at a time, quiet as possible upon the creaky floor. A woman could be heard from inside the flat moaning in hopeless grief. The door at the bottom of the steps at the street slammed and the sound of running could be heard.
"Mrs. Hudson"?, Watson whispered at Holmes.
He shook his head. "I sent her away hours ago", he said aloud. Holmes's confidant expression changed to one of bewilderment. At the door he whispered, "I don't understand, Watson". They entered the dark flat, it was so cold, a small glint of reflection sparked from one glass beaker at Holmes's desk, the sound of glass splintering as though struck with precision. As their eyes adjusted to the dark the shadowy outline of a woman became visible, swimmingly mist-like, there by the middle bay window, arms outstretched to her benefactors in silent screaming agony. Watson recklessly fired once more, shattering the window, apparition dissolving, fireplace flaring up, and Holmes caught the dear old fellow before he hit the floor in a dead faint.
"You see, my dear Watson, that dastardly murderous Ramsey was the lookout at the pub, I recognized him easy enough, if he'd not panicked and stayed put he would have succeeded. Miss Willow died mysteriously many years ago, unsolved, that was easily checked, on the third shelf in my encyclopedia scrapbook - knew that before you arrived - there there, easy, drink that slower...I knew Ramsey wanted something from our rooms, probably had an, um, inebriated woman scrawl that letter jokingly and boldly signed off by the woman he murdered..oh, yes, Watson evidence yes...the door slamming and those hurried steps, his ghost-frightened accomplice fleeing...ransacking our humble abode for the proof of the slow-killing poison that I didn't even knew I possessed. How he knew? That's the one point I never could figure. And obviously I never could've deduced that we would meet Miss Willow in the ..in the.."
"In the flesh, Holmes?" Watson sighed deep and fell asleep at last.
image: Uzengia Aleksander Nedic
Sunflower seed solitude
Black hat winged poet
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Haiku My Heart
courtesy Bing images
Stop use and ask a doctor if any of these symptoms occur:
You feel faint. Headache. Anxiety. Unrelenting sex drive. Restlessness. Bloodshot eyes like magpies. Blurred vision or hallucinations of beautiful women with dark eyes. Like Ava Gardner. She definitely was a stunner but was married three times. Did you know that? And reflective sunlight from her eyes could cause fires. Avoid the Sun never going outside without your hat on your head. Take a coat. Listen to your mother then. Sleepiness may occur and could possible foretell future problems. Especially with a beautiful woman with eyes that can kill. I should know. Take as needed. Heed as taken.
image by Sarolta Ban
the hail storm
The promise of a bright blue sky lay south, but quick change storm-clouds massed directly above and unleashed a fury of hail unto the road before me, so hard I had to pull to the side on a quiet street, not because of lack of visibility, but because of the deafening pelting on roof and window like wayward golf balls from that first free lesson of one thousand golfers. Or, when I closed my eyes, like my space capsule being bombarded by meteors as I orbited the blue moon, the thick one-inch aeronautic steel protecting me and my co-pilot dog.
In the silent clearing after the quarter-sized hail, the streets looked as though covered in a thick layering of rock salt, noisily traversed and uneven like a deserted country gravel road. It all melted so quick, sunswept and steaming. The accompanying torrent of rain filled the ditches almost to overflowing, a reminder of my youth when after a storm the deep ditches were like rivers, when me and some neighbor kids would set objects afloat and running along side watch them move rapidly downstream, under drive ways and exiting silver storm pipes like submarines surfacing in port triumphantly returning from battle, the crowds cheering on the docks with the ladies waving white silk handkerchiefs at the saluting men on deck.
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