Home of "Haiku Mike"
It does not take much to remember . . .
Vietnam. Someone says that word, places that place into my mind and it speeds through all the black and white movie reels again. As if it matters, my cat jumps into my lap and wants to be petted. I do it, mechanically moving my fingers between her ears, and think to myself about gain and loss. It is a perfect moment, really.
shooting the moon
my finger
always dead center
First Published in: HaibunToday!
A Failure of Language
It has been years, yes years, since my brother and I spoke in any meaningful way. It was his decision, and not based on any action or inaction of mine, at least that I am aware of. Now, I will never really know. Having just finished a phone call with him, the last I will ever have, all I can do is wonder at the why?
long winter
birds peck at dry grass
in fresh snow
After a sharp weight loss, celiac disease was the diagnosis, and a gluten-free diet the prescription. Twenty pounds more in weight loss and an MRI revealed the mass in the small intestines of my brother. The surgery the next day removed the mass that had already involved the intestines. ‘Lymphoma’ is an undramatic word with dramatic implications. His life would be over in less than six months.
contemplating
the vernal equinox
lost in a ‘polar vortex’
First published in: HaibunToday!
Miles Ahead
not being here
it
never entered my mind
all blues
as the stars fade
into new days
stockholm
where were you
when i was young
if i were a bell
the world
would ring forever
stuff
and the riff
on the last riff
early morning
after
b e er s h i t s
building
colors on frozen sand
northern lights
human nature
the delicate touch of
whatever comes my way
clay pigeons
feeding them
anyway
knowing
nothing
the flight of birds
First published in: moongarlic E-zine!
the misery of
knowing and then not knowing
early morning fog
giving away
all my sins
free to good home
First published in: Hedgerow!
dreams
the facts of
poetry
spring rain
the smoke from
my neighbor’s chimney
the birds
fly through it like
it wasn’t there
sunset
First published in: Hedgerow!
immovable objects
growing older. two titans form in my mind. primary is the memory of everyone i have known as ‘friend’. so overwhelming it is that ‘counting’ is lost on me. all of the playmates of youth. the games both sporting and romantic. two marriages one of which i cherish completely to this day. the children both mine and the ones that make me ‘grand’. the scent of incense and peaceful reflection that flow through all of these.
but then there is loss. that war from early years. the struggles of sudden youthful deaths. beautiful memories that turn to tears. the bridge i have to cross some day in the future. in the most silent of ways. i wonder will all the memories come with me. will anyone remember me.
where i fit in
with others
potholes in a winter road
First published in: Hedgerow!
the value in going over the line…
i firmly believe that the third glass of wine is the best. the fourth glass is good too and i highly recommend it to you. without it you will never know for sure that the third glass is the best.
sometimes
the future is already dead
moon viewing
First Published in: Hedgerow!
clarity overrated
some people like to nail things down. me i just wonder at the wonder of it all. good days. bad days. what are they anyway. sometimes the closest you are to anyone is the day they die. not to be morbid but there is no longer any expectations. no worry about what they might or might not do. only that peaceful reflection that comes when you place the last piece in the puzzle and can finally marvel at the entire picture. but even that is just a dream. in the end all the puzzle pieces go back into the box.
fog horn
but i already knew
about the fog
First Published in: Hedgerow!
theory of poetry
i am at a poetry reading. i am sitting in the back of the room and my mind wanders. they read for another hour or so it seems. then the person leading the reading suddenly points at me and says
what do you think mike.
so i blurt out a question.
i wonder how far the closest Hard Rock Cafe is from here.
the sudden silence in the room stuns even me.
the parking lot
is full of cars…
i am a pedestrian
First published in Hedgerow!
miles davis was a haiku poet (yes he REALLY was)
yes. the previously sealed archives have been opened now. it is an established fact (like sunshine and rain) that every note he blew was a syllable in the trumpet language. long ignored by anthropologists this language has persisted for thousands of years. older than sanskrit is the speech of notes. first on hollow logs. then on branches hollowed out to become flutes. the industrial age gave us brass sections. and the electronic age synthesizers and override tubes for amps. but it took miles to put it all together for us. we can now close our universities and gather around a huge fire and recount our moments in the poetry of music.
winter rain
the piano man works
it into the tune
This was first published in Haibun Today!
Michael Rehling 