As per a tradition that I started a year or two ago, This week after Christmas posting has been written by the writers on this site that have contributed haiku comments over the past year.  As you will see, they are an extremely talented bunch and it has been a lot of fun to trade haikus with them.  (I did include in this heap of haikus, one that I wrote just because I had forgotten it and when I was compiling this list, I read it and it made me laugh.)  Thank you to all my fellow haiku writers that have been willing to play with me this past year.  You inspire me and make me want to keep writing.

 

 
---

Love ties together
what one life can not endure:
Cruel rodeo.

 moat

---

Money is a game.
The exchange makes us equal.
We can both lose all.

The card on the floor,
Three doors closed on Sunday night:
Dreams march toward morning.

History is tough.
Stories within all stories.
But one is not there.

 moat

---

 

Tall trees say nothing
living only for sunrise
Green grass becomes brown

A Guy Called LULU

---

tanka haiku:

On the Promenade
Fog made Manhattan flicker.
But then the cloud came:

Its outline barely perceived
Before wrapping us in gloom.

moat

---

With each sun rise,
the dramas of Life resume
and we step onstage.

I do not know Smith
When it rises, there's no stage
At the least for me

I find that for me
The new sun will rise each day
But for what purpose?

The dramas of life
Hold so very little for....
Oh what is the use?

Richard Day

---

Dreams are a city,
Rooms become trains and kisses.
The space between trees.

moat

---

 

Through the train windows,
I see her on the platform.
Watch the closing doors.

Practice teaches us,
Plus we learn from each other.
The pleasure is mine.

moat

---

 

Riding the Local,
I saw her on the Express;
Parallel process.

When the questions start,
Everybody gets pissed off.
It is personal.

moat

---

 

Existential snow;
I shovel, therefore, I am;
Shape from subtraction.

moat

---

 

You love the beloved,
When all the annoying things,
Remind you of her.

moat

---

 

To properly dance,
I must first remove my pants;
Revealing my tights.

Digging out the car,
For the seventh time or more,
I met Sisyphus.

  His boulder is very large.
  He keeps it in a garage.

---

 

I will take the tour,
Experience it again,
Just the way it was.
 
moat

---

Bulldozers, dump trucks
They go past my front window
I'm still a young boy

Verified Atheist

---

 

Inadvertent sounds
let my colleagues know again
who is day dreaming.

moat

---

I view CSPAN now
The fascist ends with GOD BLESS

Without God or Bless
Before Teaparties
Celebrate their wondrous cause

But I have to pause
I have to pause because I
See nothing but lies

Lies that lie in muck
Lies that lie in fantasy
Lies that have no facts

Nothing is revealed
Nothing adds to humanity
Nothing but real hate

So I leave debate
I must hold down my hating
And quit debating

the end  ... hahaha

Richard Day
--

 

Everything we have
Writ has already been writ
Every thing writ

There are so many
Combinations that can be
That can be written

Mathematics are
The only force to deal with
Whilst we examine

Whilst we examine
The possibilities that
Do confront us all

26 letters
Bind the possibilities
This even was said

Richard Day
 

---

tanka haiku:

It is not a sum,
a totality of words.
It is what remains.

     The uncarved block is still there.
     Drops quiver before they fall.

moat

---

Intended silence
can shout at the listener.
No one owns meaning.

moat

---

tanka haiku:

Interpretations?
We each must own them somehow:
Or own up to them.

     It is less of a rental
     than a condominium.

--
 
Haiku real estate:
Two room luxury unit
With Eat In Kitchen.

--

tanka haiku:

Dreams of our demise
build a second home out back
from cubes of smooth ice.

     Echoes are dampened inside
     when the furniture arrives.

moat

---

I think about this
All the time, to my regret
I think about this

Loves lost and loves won
I won one love and I lost
But time tells us all

Nothing really lasts
Nothing is this permanent
So I must adjust

--

I have memories
Memories that just keep on
And still are keeping

Richard Day

---

tanka haiku:

Dancing skeletons;
Words skittering in the pan
with sly tiny nods

     argue against the old judge
     and his gavel of regret.

---

I miss nursing my
espresso. How best to press?
Good Coffee not there
 
It is espresso
and not expresso. Haha
Magic in caffeine

Oooooooooooooh, the initial
Initial taste on the tongue
Espresso just rules

There is a whole foods
Store down the street I might pass
From time to time tho

When snow melts and I
Rethink my real existence
I may revisit

There is something true
About a real espresso
Just so you might know

Richard Day

---

Clouds of tourists clump
over wet streets in Times Square;
The neon drizzles.
 
These years in orbit
around my only planet
make for a full moon.

Dog chases the stick,
Returning it to be thrown;
A language game.

moat

---

The doors do not close.
Tags on the knobs disturb you.
Breathe the hotel air.

Spring wraps its scarf tight,
waiting in the longer day:
A quiet bus stop.

--

The stop has one friend
to help cast moving shadows;
Sundials in transit.

 

moat

---

It was almost gone.
We dance to the nick of time;
Needing the sharp edge.

moat

---

The lesson again:
As if this strange thing was learned
by repetition.

The hard things are soft.
Some things outside heard sharply:
A quiet appeal.
 
The self as a thing.
We don't know about that life.
We talk about it.

--

I work tomorrow.
Stealing time from a question;
Running from something.

moat

---

 

She walked on her toes.
Cadence to an odd new song;
Impossible dance.

moat

---

 

The shape of her feet
seen from every angle.
I am not done yet.
 

Reluctant winter
hides behind spring's festival.
Bird song shadow box.

moat

---

He left what was done
to see if it would return:
Testing the system.

Cutting to a line;
close without erasing it
is the skill itself.

moat

---

His strong emotion;
hidden by bold nonchalance:
Walks upon a beam.

 Flower is an end.
Tightly coiled bud opens up;
Letting something go.

moat

---

Whatever the scene,
nobody likes to get played:
Manipulation.

Fingers on the scale;
Watching as the deal goes down;
People at the door.
 
The heart is stupid:
Finding all coordinates
through itself alone.

moat

---

I do not feel that
God is watching, but I feel
Nothingness awaits.

Mortality's sure
Even Dick Cheney will die
Death awaits us all

Voltaire had gardens
He hid in those many groves
to ignore evils
 
I watch PGA
I miss Tiger Woods but now
I watch a German

I have nothing to
Add, but I had a little of
Bliss at one short time
 
Counting is so hard
Syllabiles are not easy
That is all I got?

What the hell were we
Talking about before I
began my ranting?

Richard Day

---

What seems most given;
the experience of time;
is least understood.

Disappointed look:
Envelope and its letter;
The glove and the slap.

moat

---

Neon boils over.
Forty Second Street is blue.
Feet stamp down the past.

moat

---

Turn red with anger,
white at the sight of a ghost.
Blue remembers blue.
 
We met in hard times.
When a pattern gets started,
the rest is like it.

moat

---

My mind is slipping
on the icy road of tears
where your children walk.

My mind is slipping
as my soul is falling through
the abyss of yours.

barefooted

---

Do we need the flame?
Or is it enough to bask
in the afterglow?

The wax that has dripped
down the sides of memory
still carries some warmth.

So let us slumber
in the generosity
of its peaceful light.

barefooted

---

tanka haiku:

Thoughts repeat themselves.
That is neither good nor bad,
seen as a process.

Hegel played Psychology
while Spinoza looked for God.

moat

---

Too bad his record
belied the liberal heart
he wore on his sleeve.

barefooted

---

Loveliness, to me,
is a gentle dignity.
Loveliness was she.

barefooted

---

Loneliness to me
Is lack of some dignity
Loneliness is me

Richard Day

---

The white birds are back
It is less than mid august
A winter awaits

Hard winter is near
These birds know the real future
Cause they always know
 
How do they know this?
Because of experience
I know cold is nigh

Are these just omens?
Yeah, but I trust these omens
They were here before

We must prepare for
The real cold that awaits us
Or we all shall freeze

Richard Day

---

As the flower died
Between forgotten pages
The fragrance lingered.
 
barefooted

---

I recognize you.
My eyes do not see, and yet ...
You are everywhere.

I envelope you.
My blindness assuaged because ...
You recognize me.

barefooted

---

Turn the volume up!
For sightless hearts are dancing
on the FM dial.

barefooted

---

 

My juvenile mind
tortures the tendons with dance:
Geriatric Rock.

moat

---

It's mortality
That is what's bothering me
Mortality, see?
 
I'm going to die
At least, sooner or later.
Sooner or later

What does sooner mean?
What does later really mean?
Later becomes now

Later becomes now
Eventually it comes
Later becomes now
 
Why is it so hard
To accept the fate of all?
And I am just one?

Seven billion
And so I am just the one
This is selfishness

Enough of that stuff
We had a cool summer
No need for coolers
 
Devises that cool
were needed elsewhere
Far from this northland

I listen to the loons
I listen to the wind and trains
Calming they all are

Richard Day

 

---

With down like ducklings
pillowed clouds floated softly,
disguising the swans.

barefooted

---

On her tippie-toes
the ballerina surprised
the prima donna.

And in so doing,
caused the soprano to sound
much like a chicken!

---

It leans to the right,
the needles are falling off,
half the lights don't work

The star is crooked,
and the garland is drooping.
What a lovely tree!!

barefooted

---

Wrapped in silent night,
I danced with a new partner.
He showed me my feet.

I am closer now.
Though I don't know how I know.
The path draws my step.

Day is my Sister.
We breakfast on rising light
then rush off to work.

moat

---

Black eye peas give luck.
Apple cobbler provides warmth.
Where are my new socks?

moat

---

Context's not content.
These words right here are content.
The haiku---context.
 
When content is writ,
As the here and now of it.
Context is content.

 
Oxy Mora

---

The hoar frost is here
Besides the fog and sticky snow
Everything white
The bushes dance with white
In the wind, bushes dance white
Everything white
This white seems so clean
All the dirt is covered up
But danger is there
Fall down and You're done
Yet the snow helps us
Snow is so less slippery
Yet the white is like
Baptism and forgiveness
A new world begins

Richard Day

---

Gremlins ate some lines,
dag is infected with gremlins
catch them if you can?

trkingmomoe

---

Now my soul is free ...
No more tears to find all the
pain I'd left behind.

No fear, no despair,
no confusion anywhere ...
Now my soul is free.

barefooted

---

yearbook hits dumpster
old photo of arranged date
we both looked away.

dumpsters make a noise
clang, at least they say something,
what were your hobbies?

When did you marry?
Did you have any children?
That's it then, throw it.

 
Oxy Mora

---

 

A simple Haiku
without its complexity
is not a Haiku.

barefooted

---

A French quotation:
Let them eat longevity.
Hungry old peasants.

It's just an abyss,
So go jump off a high cliff.
Folks should lighten up.

So, she's your ex wife?
Those cold damn peas and onions.
Awkward holidays.

Oxy Mora

---

REMEMBRANCES OF THINGS PAST

He sat on the bridge
Between the East & West Banks
Across the river
Across the river
He spied the place of his birth
Just twenty three years

Just twenty three years
And I had traveled two miles
Just two miles thus far
But I had no record
No mistakes on paper yet
Plenty mistakes tho
I almost jumped in
I felt a baptism might help
To be free of sin
Two degrees, so what?
I felt so goddamn lost and
My paper trail clean
I just recall the sun
Shining up on that river
As I wept for me
Selfishness is there
Selfishness causes despair
I was very lost
I just recall this
Like it was yesterday
I am still so lost
After all these years.

 

the end

Richard Day

---

 

Fear waits for bad things.
Courage has no time for that.
There is work to do.

moat

---

A doorman locked out
is the ultimate snobby
cold layoff notice.

Oxy Mora

---

He's waited all year.
Winter coats are like old friends.
Now the ear muffs, eh.

Oxy Mora

---

Sorry, this content
is not available in
your location, doc!

Verified Atheist

---

The hunt over, an
8-Pointer splayed on a Jeep!
Oh the joy, the pain.

Oxy Mora

---

Old Circus tent rule.
Always place the pop corn stand
Upwind of patrons.

Upwind from a bear.
Too bad he didn't know it.
No pop corn for lunch.

Oxy Mora

---

Treat the infection
with rhetorical questions.
Poultice wound with rage.

Energetic steps,
leaning into the cold rain,
compress fallen leaves.

Spattered by faint praise,
he beat his chest like Tarzan.
Jane kept on reading.

moat

---

Ice cream quart melting.
He spooned around the edges,
offending his wife.
 
Double murder charge.
"Yo, I never killed no one"
Language can hurt you.

The netflix couple.
He jumped up to get a beer.
She quietly streamed.

Texting ? four u:
Wht dus th wrd banal meen?
Ans: dmb thgs peep rite.
 
A face lift only works
when life is on the upswing.
per Isaac Newton.
 
October tin roofs
brace for rain, hail, dead branches,
pinging of acorns.

leaves let loose their grip,
glide with dignity onto
beds of winter grass.

 
Oxy Mora

---

Red state religion;
Matt, Mark, Luke and Wyat Earp;
Guns and Jesus---Christ!

Creation theme park.
God made little green apples;
Feed the dinosaurs.

Liquidity, blah,
Bonds, blub, stocks, blap, hedge

funds, blip;
Dirt's dirt cheap right now.

Grand Canyon, Mesa,
Apache Junction, Scottsdale,
Patagonia?

Dessert forks languished.
It's unimaginable!
Left-over cobbler.

Doors should be opened,
Especially for pizza.
Super---not supper.
 
Troves of poison oak,
Grandpa died a pedophile;
tombstones can hurt you.

Love should conquer all.
Except--- Don't side-swipe my car,
you jerk--- where was I....
 

 Oxy Mora

---

 

Gangster Kitties don't
play with little mousey toys
when someone's watching

Verified Atheist

---

 

Fluorescent shadows
play pep talk in the blue room.
Time cards hide in slots.

GPS guru
croons didactic urgency;
The exit is near.

His stare unnerved me.
Scarecrow smiles after spotting
my easy panic.

moat

---

 

Perhaps the lender
Would refinance the old loan.
Hello! Is Faust in?

Oxy Mora

---

 

Mephistopheles
brings fresh blood to the old game:
Personal Banking.

moat

---

We're Brimstone Bank, When
your assets have gone to Hell,
we have a branch there....

MrSmith1

---

Leaves let loose their grip,
glide with dignity onto
beds of winter grass.

Oxy Mora

---

He subtracted her.
Coldly, methodically, he
sliced the equation.

barefooted

---

 

Coefficient hearts
treat variable factors
as a finite set.

 moat

---

 

Muscles intertwined,
afraid of suffocation
they refuse to breathe.

barefooted

---

This scientist's eyes
read what you wrote and his brain
said to laugh out loud

Verified Atheist

---

 

Shift-Enter inserts
New line without extra space
In case you wondered

Verified Atheist

---

The rocket blew up.
I didn't know as I gazed
at an empty sky.

The night before that,
my view was obstructed by
an errant sailboat.

barefooted

---

Fear, like a balloon,
slowly becomes inflated
by those who can't breathe.

Inevitably,
it will burst into pieces ...
Resuscitation.

barefooted

---

The canary died.
It is time to leave the mine.
Knowledge can hurt you.

moat

---

He pushed on the door,
and stepped back twice when he saw
the other people.

moat

---

Close enough to stare,
but too far away to hear
their explanation.

barefooted

---

Delicate green stem,
bearing broad leaves in the rain,
dips and turns with ease.

Grasp sparrow's tail:
If I could really do it,
would I have the bird?

moat

---

tanka haiku:

Plot, hatched by a Loon
introduces the Falcon:
A Murder of Crows.

Cormorant finds it fishy;
A scene on the beach occurs.

moat

---

I am on the phone
Pop, it's me, how's it goin?
Oh my back and my....

Oh stop that, I think
I AM JUST FINE, HOW ARE YOU?
Oh Pop it seems bad.

Well how is baby?
She cries and mama's sooooo tired
And nobody sleeps

Precious got sick
And now I am sick; stuffed up
I got a week off

And I clean the house
And I try to get some sleep

Work is easier.
Noela toss those
Those berries are poison, just
Toss them on the ground

Oh Pop this is tough
Mom and Grandma took baby
To the doc today

For a reg check up
I am in the yard with her
SHE JUST PISSED HERSELF!

Surrounded by fems
His babies, Mom, & grandmas
No men to talk to.

Hahahahahahahahahahhahah
 
Life can be so goooooooooooood
But it can be a tough job
He must just man up

hahahahhah

And he will manage
He yells at his girl, and he
Sounds just like I did.

He sounds just like me
It is amazing
To go back in time like this
And yet hear myself
He had to go and
Care for his wet baby girl
And I said good bye!

Echoes of remembrances of things past.

 
Richard Day

---

Long dress rehearsal;
not sure that I fit the role;
The curtain rises.

 moat

---

My trousers are gone.
Stripped away like paint from wood.
This is a dream: No?

moat

---

Bonus material:  This week is Act 1 Scene 1 from the very first play I ever attempted; a play that was never produced.  It is about Radio comedian Fred Allen, who died in 1956.  He was, along with Jack Benny, one of the biggest stars in Radio, his show ran 17 years, 1932 to 1949, but because, unlike Benny, he didn't make a successful transition to television, Fred Allen has been mostly forgotten. I discovered him around 1965 when I read a book of his letters.  He was one of the first authors that I read that made me laugh out loud.  Over the years, I seemed to keep finding little reminders of Fred; while working as a page at NBC, I was assigned to clean out a closet, and found the script for his Today Show obituary, and rescued it from being thrown in the dumpster.  A friend who knew I was a fan found a discarded first edition of one of the books he wrote while walking down the street.  This friend would, a few years later star in a play which WAS authorized by Fred's estate, playing the role of Fred's wife, Portland Hoffa.  (I still don't think the play was as good as the one I wrote all those years ago. But that's Show Biz, isn't it? hahaha)   This friend also hooked me up with a couple of women from the BBC in the late 1990's who were doing a radio series on women in old time radio and they came and interviewed me about Fred's wife.  It was nice to know that all the research I had done did find an outlet eventually.  Anyway ...

On a Treadmill to Oblivion
by Michael Tracy Smith

Act One - Scene One

(The curtain is up as the audience enters.  The stage is bare and lit with a few pinspots. Upstage Left is a large, gaping black hole.  Rock music is playing.  As the house lights dim, the music is interrupted by static as if a radio dial was being turned, we hear a snippet from the song, Video Killed the Radio Star, then more static, then a snippet of A Day in The Life, more static, a few bars of "Blue Suede Shoes", static, then a snippet of a Glenn Miller song ... and then: a trio of female voices singing Fred's opening: "Mr. Allen, Mr. Allen ..." After a moment's hesitation, out of the gaping hole walks Fred Allen.  He crosses to a microphone which has risen from the floor at Centerstage.)

Fred: (To Audience:)
Warming up an audience is like warming up dry ice ... when you've done it, what have you got?  It is said that Life is but a few moments on a stage, illuminated by light, followed by the darkness of eternity.  An interesting notion.  But then, why is it that some people seem to escape the darkness, while most of us do not? We do our jobs, we live our lives, then we die and are forgotten.  Slowly perhaps, but gradually, as those who knew us grow old and die, we are forgotten.  What makes those that escape the darkness different?  Does everyone who is remembered, deserve to be remembered? And are those forgotten best left so? Or is fate crueler and more arbitrary than that?  For those of you that got caught in the crowd and swept in here, I would like to say that this is the Fred Allen Show.  If, by any chance, any of you are in the wrong place, you still have a few minutes before we begin to get the heck out of here.  Heck, incidentally is a place invented by the National Broadcasting Company.  NBC does not recognize Hell or the Columbia Broadcasting System.  When a bad person working for NBC dies, he goes to heck.  When a good person dies, he goes to the Rainbow Room ... Well, I can see from the script that has issued forth from my typewriter, that tonight, the Mighty Allen Art Players will perform for you a stirring little homily on the rise and fall of a radio comedian.  The age old story of a man who discovers that fame is as fleeting as a butterfly's belch, and that too often, all a comedian has to show for his years of work and aggravation is the echo of forgotten laughter.  Y'see, I was a star for over 25 years, beginning in Vaudeville and then on Broadway and on the Radio, and yet I venture to guess that not one typical average American under the age of 40 would know me from Methusalah.   Well, I hope to change all that with this modest little retrospective.  The story of one man's attempt to amuse the masses, while dodging the slings and arrow of addle-brained executives; men with minds so small, they can be stuffed into a flea's navel and still have room for six caraway seeds and an agent's heart.

The Stage Manager appears Stage right and loudly clears his throat.)

Stage Manager:
Uh, Mr Allen ...

Fred Allen:
Ladies and Gentlemen, this is our Stage Manager.  Don't applaud, he is a relative of the Producer.  In theater today, the only thing most producers produce is relatives.

Stage Manager:

Mr. Allen ... We need to get things started.

Fred Allen:

This man's main job is to worry about when we can get everybody out of the theater and turn the lights off.  This will save his uncle thousands of dollars in electric bills and overtime payments.

Stage Manager:

Mr. Allen ...

Fred Allen:

Ohhh, why don't you just go away?  (Stage Manager exits)  I was bothered by these types all my life ... So-called 'authority figures' ... meddlers, fools, censors, editors, sponsors, vice-presidents ... Executives! You know what most executives are, don't you? They're molehill men.  They come into their offices at 9 o'clock and find a molehill on their desk. They have until 5 o'clock to make it into a mountain.  Suffice it to say, these authority figures helped make me what I am today; naught but a fading thought in the minds of the elderly generation ... So now, Ladies and Gentlemen, we present much ado about me; Fred Allen, on a treadmill to oblivion.
The story of John Florence Sullivan, born May 31, 1894, who, as Fred Allen, became the funniest man in America ... for a while.  Owing to my familiarity with the subject, I will play the leading role.   I hope you enjoy it.  You see, I know what's coming and that sort of spoils it for me ... But, let's begin.  Now most stories like this start with some kind of fanfare.

(A fanfare is played.)

Well, why should we be any different?  Actually, my story begins rather quietly.  My father was a bookbinder for the Boston Public Library.  My mother died when I was three and I was raised by my Aunt Lizzie.  She did a good job.  I am five feet eleven.  People who do not raise  their children end up with midgets.  As a young man, I too worked in the library.  In my spare time, I taught myself how to juggle.  Of course, I told all my friends at the time that I started tossing in my sleep and I woke up a juggler ... (aside to audience) Don't worry, the jokes get better as we go along ... Whatever possessed me to want to juggle I will never know.

(Three balls are tossed to Fred and he begins to juggle.)

At a talent show for library employees, my juggling act was a big hit.  It was then that I heard a voice which changed my life:

Young girl's voice:
You ought to be in Show Business!

Fred Allen:

If that girl had kept her mouth shut, I might have ended up as the only librarian that could juggle four Balzacs at one time.  I spent all my free time rehearsing my juggling and eventually the voice of that girl sprouted in my subconscious.  I began to suspect that she was right.  There was only one way to find out.  I started appearing at amateur nights in theaters around Boston.  Aunt Lizzie always had some encouraging words for me:

Aunt Lizzie:
It's the road to ruin.  A boy I knew in school went on the stage and right away he turned to drink and eventually was buried in a drunkard's grave.

Fred Allen:
This is what Aunt Lizzie felt I could look forward to.  But, to me at the time, the thrill of performing and the excitement of meeting new people was intoxication enough.

 

(End of Scene One.) 

(To be continued ... )

 

                                                          ***