welcome to the haikutimes
Issue #72, September 20-21, 2003; Haikutimes staff writers and friends (Susan Peterson, Krista Morien, Patrick Lynn, Sara Benson, Wyn Bruce, Jonathan Machen, and Paige Wild) take a vacation at Susan Peterson's cabin near Idaho Springs, Colorado, away from the rigors of the haiku beat. Photographs, writing and layout by Jonathan Machen.
we are ourselves and our baby
we are a part of each
Me. Packit. Paige. Sara. Wen. Susan. Krista. Two dogs.
Krista brings pre-made waffles
sara is sorta sick
a cabin in the woods
with friends
no foes
two dogs running around
and barking
Packit breaking dried sticks,
two year's worth, cured
in last summer's drought
that rusted metal
meditation chair
tony alcantara brought up here,
weathered red in front
of blazing yellow aspens,
hasn't moved an inch.
what are we--
scofflaws and refusenicks
battered by another
political week in the usa,
more inclined to hear
nonsensical poems by
Richard Brautigan,
his pill and springhill mine disaster
read to us as we wind up switchbacks
santa fe mountain road,
the argo mine below,
visible from the safeway parking lot
with the same asian checkout lady
i saw last time i was here buying ski tickets.
a whole bag of vinegar and salt
potato chips later
i'm thinking of the fourty portraits
i want to do by my fourtieth birthday
everyone recollects the time
the gang assembled at the cabin
to play truth or dare
sara pretended she was a chicken
making love to a broom
red ford and green subaru
winding up a steep and gravelly road
forest thinned, aspens glowing
waking up at 8:30 to pee
in clear fresh mountain washed air
aspen leaves yellow, trembling
through a hole where earlier
mars disappeared in the
star-studded evening.
the red a-frame gutted,
bullet cartridges and splayed
metal gun-holes,
broken glass.
susan wants to live
for a full year in her cabin,
once a month
either visiting or being visited
not concerned by the five miles
up and down above idaho springs
or crazy neighbors
like those who come to scrape around
their bits of acreage
high up in toothpick limber pines,
obscuring their views of st. mary's glacier
and james peak.
krista brings a layer cake
made of oat and spelt flower,
icing of toasted hazlenuts
mixed with chocolate.
i grill juicy portabella mushrooms
sauteed in paul newman's salad dressing,
we heat water on the kalamazoo
for ginger tea,
dogs wimper to go out
and to come in
in an undying cycle.
susan bruises her shin
with a flawed swing of the maul.
she would rather be a stacker
with a charcoal pirate's mustache
than a swinger
of heavy metal tools.
i hear plenty of chatter and giggles
about wood whacking,
whacking your wood,
packit's energetic attempt
by building a pile of sticks
to increase susan's odds at surviving
the long winter with plenty of fuel
so she won't shiver in the corner
muttering about matthew fox.
suddenly sobered while brushing teeth
by recollections of a coma
in florida fourteen years earlier
You came to this place of silence
and in the middle of the cool, dark night
I visited you.
Maybe it took this lack of distractions
for you to pay attention
but even then, I had to flap my wings
and buzz loudly
unyielding to your furious attempts
to wave me away.
I returned, buzzed louder,
flapped harder.
"Pay attention to me" I pleaded
and then finally, you lifted
that framed picture that sat so conveniently to your side
(Mothers always have pictures of their children close at hand)
You held the photo like a cross warding away a demon
And like a demon warned,
I retreated.
But my retreat bore no resemblance of defeat
for I saw the child that was to come
and finally, you saw the child within your reach.
And now, I fly off
to buzz the head of other mothers to be
"Pay Attention" I demand with my annoying,
(yet well intentioned) flapping and buzzing.
Geez, the hard work my life has become.
What happened to the wild risk and happenstance,
the blissful ignorance that once led
to parenthood?
we are ourselves and our baby
we are a part of each
Me. Packit. Paige. Sara. Wen. Susan. Krista. Two dogs.
Krista brings pre-made waffles
sara is sorta sick
a cabin in the woods
with friends
no foes
two dogs running around
and barking
Packit breaking dried sticks,
two year's worth, cured
in last summer's drought
that rusted metal
meditation chair
tony alcantara brought up here,
weathered red in front
of blazing yellow aspens,
hasn't moved an inch.
what are we--
scofflaws and refusenicks
battered by another
political week in the usa,
more inclined to hear
nonsensical poems by
Richard Brautigan,
his pill and springhill mine disaster
read to us as we wind up switchbacks
santa fe mountain road,
the argo mine below,
visible from the safeway parking lot
with the same asian checkout lady
i saw last time i was here buying ski tickets.
a whole bag of vinegar and salt
potato chips later
i'm thinking of the fourty portraits
i want to do by my fourtieth birthday
everyone recollects the time
the gang assembled at the cabin
to play truth or dare
sara pretended she was a chicken
making love to a broom
red ford and green subaru
winding up a steep and gravelly road
forest thinned, aspens glowing
waking up at 8:30 to pee
in clear fresh mountain washed air
aspen leaves yellow, trembling
through a hole where earlier
mars disappeared in the
star-studded evening.
the red a-frame gutted,
bullet cartridges and splayed
metal gun-holes,
broken glass.
susan wants to live
for a full year in her cabin,
once a month
either visiting or being visited
not concerned by the five miles
up and down above idaho springs
or crazy neighbors
like those who come to scrape around
their bits of acreage
high up in toothpick limber pines,
obscuring their views of st. mary's glacier
and james peak.
krista brings a layer cake
made of oat and spelt flower,
icing of toasted hazlenuts
mixed with chocolate.
i grill juicy portabella mushrooms
sauteed in paul newman's salad dressing,
we heat water on the kalamazoo
for ginger tea,
dogs wimper to go out
and to come in
in an undying cycle.
susan bruises her shin
with a flawed swing of the maul.
she would rather be a stacker
with a charcoal pirate's mustache
than a swinger
of heavy metal tools.
i hear plenty of chatter and giggles
about wood whacking,
whacking your wood,
packit's energetic attempt
by building a pile of sticks
to increase susan's odds at surviving
the long winter with plenty of fuel
so she won't shiver in the corner
muttering about matthew fox.
suddenly sobered while brushing teeth
by recollections of a coma
in florida fourteen years earlier
You came to this place of silence
and in the middle of the cool, dark night
I visited you.
Maybe it took this lack of distractions
for you to pay attention
but even then, I had to flap my wings
and buzz loudly
unyielding to your furious attempts
to wave me away.
I returned, buzzed louder,
flapped harder.
"Pay attention to me" I pleaded
and then finally, you lifted
that framed picture that sat so conveniently to your side
(Mothers always have pictures of their children close at hand)
You held the photo like a cross warding away a demon
And like a demon warned,
I retreated.
But my retreat bore no resemblance of defeat
for I saw the child that was to come
and finally, you saw the child within your reach.
And now, I fly off
to buzz the head of other mothers to be
"Pay Attention" I demand with my annoying,
(yet well intentioned) flapping and buzzing.
Geez, the hard work my life has become.
What happened to the wild risk and happenstance,
the blissful ignorance that once led
to parenthood?
solo/group kukai
drawing/writing/photography
jonathan machen
drawing/writing/photography
jonathan machen