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Spring:

Spring--my back hurts,
maybe from trying
to grow wings.


Early. Dew-wet shoes
side-step snails on the walk.
Everything smells green.


Avoiding mud
till out-flanked. Kiss! Kiss! Spring makes
moist love to shy shoes.

This and the preceding poem are examples of poems too cluttered to be haiku. This one is only 17 syllables, but they are syllables rich with consonants and words rich in implied metaphor. I think it's a good poem, but too rich for haiku -- like mixing the Perrier with a liqueur. The next poem, I would say, is haiku.


I wonder could I sleep
on this soft quilted
grey sky?


In April rain,
new maple leaves hang, half folded,
like bats.


Sidewalk, where wet,
turns brownish underfoot,
but from afar slate blue.


The clouds break open.
Sunbeams streak up each tree
like squirrels.


Outside my window,
rain in the alley, sounds
like a waterfall.


Mid-wall a brick
pretends it doesn't know
it's spring.


Brassiere on the bed.
Past the window drift
pear blossoms.


Spring thaw. Of vast drifts
remains this draggled mound...
outline it in chalk?


"Wha...! Wheresh my shnow!"
The muddy stare of half-awake
grass.


March wind furls...SNAP! -
tormenting the naked trees
with a wet towel.


Not a breath of wind.
The pond has lost
its imagination.


Sudden sun
makes of mud
rich dark chocolate.


O shit says someone
who left car windows down.
Spring shower.


Pear trees blowing,
one pale sky-petal still:
afternoon moon.


So clean after rain.
Trees, bushes, blades of grass
shower me with jewels.


Listen to the rain...
good - now let the rain
listen to you.


The clouds have vanished
and the sunlight is getting
all over everything.


Greyhound moves into
grey folds of rain. Vacation
unfolds, veil by veil.


When trees stand still,
bird noise reminds spring wind
that it has been there.


Spring. I feel my face
smiling as it feels this breeze
feeling leaves dancing.


The green hills cut a sharp edge
in blue air. This too
is not my day off.


Cold for May.
I knew we'd have to pay
for the mild winter.


Spring wind fills
even the smallest trees
with dreams of sky


I live in a room
in a hotel in Los Angeles
in May.


What a day! Hard
not to run, just to feel
the spring.


Spring woods
jittery with dead leaves
and live squirrels.


Early spring. Bloated:
with each step a fart.
Overhead, wild geese.


Wet green March day,
but the air tastes
blue.


On the highway,
my free hand swimming
in soft, buoyant air.


On the hillside above
a cow browses. Cool sky,
the cheese mild.


Spring. Everywhere
new buds, peeps of green,
no one to show them to.


Pear blossom petal
drifts past my cheek. Less sublime
had it been a pear.


Dusk, and I have not
yet written...what? Spring day,
what should I say?


Bright spring day.
I have to go to work now.
I must be you, Dad.


going going down
stream with creak-crunch blue ice
bird chirps grass whisper


Draggled in branches
among new buds -- broken kites.
A cold wind.


Red mud, brown puddle,
pebbles, weeds, a grass tuft,
cement, stranded worms.


Late March, rain all day,
then blue-gold mild: the sky has
leaked a spring.


Spring wind.
The trees remember
how to breathe.


Spring wind. Old trees creak,
remembering how
they used to bend.

Spring

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