Bitter Employee Haiku #55

computer turns on
blue screen of death yeah! call IT
go for more coffee

The Death of Handwriting

I'll not miss cursive
untidy cat prints
on the windshield of my car

or block printing
that awkward formation
of idea to occurrence

killed off by the keyboard
and fingers indentured to
a s d f j k l ;

It can still happen for you

maybe I'll weed
ideas, lost chances
it all needs
rooted out.

dairy dreams...

sunday morning, spring
newspaper on front porch
real butter with eggs

Not What I Expected

The soybeans are coming up
A surprise that—
I thought them
Too long on the shelf
For a comeback
But no, there they are
Bright green as they push
Bulbous heads up through the soil
Looking faintly alien
Until leaves unfold
And the broccoli, bless them!
Still throwing out tender shoots
Topped with tiny flowerets
Still a serving for two
About once a week
I circle the yard
Bees thrum on onions and mustard
Gone to blossom, making
Wry-tasting honey, I imagine
It’s finally rained enough
For the jasmines to put out leaves
Fresh fodder for army worms
I make a mental note
To get out the Conserve
My hip aches
As I trip over the hose
My stomach slightly upset
From the evenings too much
Cheap whiskey and Coke
Last night I was thinking
About how cruel youth was
To spend itself
So unwisely
This morning
As I make neat coils of the hose
I think about
Keeping on.

Bottle Dreams

Dawn makes a rainbow of sorts.

Blue and green, amber and brown,

off the broken glass outside your window.

You smile at me, white teeth a shock

in this rainbow world.

The egg runs yellow and oval

in your black pan.

I watch your shoulders

square and round, t-shirt bright white

in the morning sun of another day

that I sit silent.

You fold your hands

and I see in their shape

my heart, lily-white, in your hands.

What the Weaverbird Knows

10,000 years in a prison
10,000 years to cry
10,000 years to remember
Endless time waiting to die

Love came with no promises
Love swept you up from the plain
Love in the end was a devil
And now you are caught in his game

So fly away, fly away, weaverbird
But first sing me a song of home
Sing me a song of the sunshine
While love picks me bare as a bone

For Nada
Who only loved
Too much

Escaping Flatland

There comes the realization

it’s all changing.

Spider veins become spider maps you could move

a horse and buggy around.

Wipe rust off

foggy mirrors

and peer uncertainly

at a face that’s no longer yours.

Time your messages.

Let egos break eggs, open cans.

It’s of no significance.

You can let sleeping dogs lie.

We’re baptized by unnecessary actions.

Take care of yourself, now.

Fine cracks start to appear

and you could fall between them.