Issue #124, Boulder Open Space, March 4, 2006. Group haiku by Krista Morien, Sara Benson, Sanjay Rajan, Jonathan Machen and Robert Power on a decidedly summer-like day in the middle of early spring, producing great confusion over the proper season-word. Also, a poem from Hal Gimpleson graces the end of this issue.
clump of turds like grapes
resting under yucca
with great simplicity
micro
at the beginning of walk
macro at the end
walking this old path
remembering sadness and confusion
i step right through it
sittin zazen
stranger unmindful
of dog slobber
did not forget my
two minute sacred haiku nap
wonderful rest
glad for the warmth of
the sun with cool winds blowing
winter into spring
the weeds of winter
startled by springtime sunshine
old forms persevere
my face
glazed deep
soakin' march sun
snow nowhere
hour later
among these plains
beads of sweat
among new wrinkles
my hand wide open
feeling everything
that old emotional pain
also the cactus
held in the cradle
of my friends - the lens opens
to reveal the truth
tranquil afternoon
crunching these pebbles
same old chacos
orange
against sky blue
just a dog head
spandex or funky
spring heat exposes styles
for dog walkers
shiny glisten
of this ancient rock
just jazz's pee
march's first -
haiku temporary
as this post-it note
from this dusty hillside
i long for the other side
a cloak of deep green
overhearing his
phone conversation while perched
on a canyon rock
out-of-place treasure
calvin and hobbes frisbee
discovered in gully
subtle restraint from
the cheese and crackers I look
toward the fluffy hills
one thought
pushing the other aside
giving them space
surprised
at how surprised i am
by this simple hill
spring heat, winter hues
as if the sun browns the land
while we wait for green
far and wild
these chacos gather
worldly dust
long string of guano
insult to injury
on forgotten stump
attachment
chasing me like an arrow
straight up the hillside
taking time to let
the edge of the sun
work it's magic
announcing
she just peed on herself
shame on ku!
investigating
things that used to seem mundane
with three-week old son
screaming
and just as suddenly
sleeping
chill temperatures
on the outside - on the inside
beating infant heart
encountering deer
i gingerly step aside
holding child near chest
heart opening wide
so deep i have to breathe in
before spilling over
haiku baby
jiggling in rhythm
singing his full name
after telling gene
of seven-syllabled name
reading his own ku
noisy traffic
layered on peaceful snow
sound and sight combine
walking in the sun
people brewing coffee
behind silent doors
lone bicyclist
enters the canyon below
last rays of the sun
deer in front yard
i walk with protective stance
holding baby
snorts and grunting
sounding brand new, familiar
the newborn stage
people say it's gone
before you can catch up to it
the child grows with a frenzy
of feedings and
nighttime nursings
waking up again
from a deep sleep
only hours after you've put him down
orion's mobile
having perverse effect on dad
now singing mozart
falling everywhere
snow crystals cover the ground
deep winter embrace
orion had
such a big day
of sleeping while hiking
coming into the world
armed with a new religion
that of the nipple
this new religion
the almighty nipple
bow to the milk queen
cherubic newborn
proselytizing the nipple
as the font of life
i suck espresso
while he sucks mothers' milk
two needy humans
wandering about
warehouses and vacant lots
playful morning walk
the rest of the world
busy with work but me just
busy with walking
in building's shadow
ice remains
parking lot shimmers
public art
unappreciated
behind liquor store
wondering
if the noise of industry
harms newborn's ears
not holding on
to this moment with my son
just watching him breathe
avoiding noisy
birds, dogs, delivery-trucks
on my morning walk
orion crying
the universe expanding
neither seems to stop
strange city noises
formerly innocuous
now disturbing sleep
his teeth whistling
on chair lift above brown snow
spring ski conditions
ice in reservoir
sinking slowly
thirsty town below
spring winds blowing
melting ice in shadows
boulder creek turns brown
She Likes Her Coffee With a Poem
by Hal Gimpleson, Colorado Springs, January 27, 2006
Nearly bitter
so dark brown
it’s nearly black
brewed just for her
fresh
in her favorite
cup
‘a short black’
‘a doppio’
whatever it’s called
strong
and next to it
a sweet roll
of his words
kneaded
twisted
then rhymed
especially baked for
her
not too syrupy
though loaded with
cinnamon and
him
just nostalgic enough
so she would
pause
to reread
through the blur of nearly
a tear
just sweet enough
before beginning
her day.