Four Haiku on Hide and Seek

Out of breath
Into blooming shrub
Sister follows

 

In the closet,
a heap of shirts, shorts
and expectance

 

Blind count
Gritty fingers depress
The sneaky peeks

 

Fireflies
See you face down
In the periwinkle

Delicious

Shovel dirt on a crisp day
in your sweatshirt.
Sit to rest and, with a sharp knife,
quarter and core a granny smith.

Peanut butter and honey each bit.

Chew magnificent
and pity the two great tastes
of peanut butter and chocolate
as they trip just shy of delicious.

Let A Rose

Let a rose be all things beautiful and true; let the rain be you.
Let a button be forbearance; let your blouse
be faded blue. 
Let a shoelace be repentance;
let me stop and tie my shoe.
Let a rose be all things beautiful and true.

Let a rose be all things beautiful and true; let a sigh be you.
Let a button be forgiveness; let your fingers
push it through. 
Let a shoelace be a promise;
let me double knot my shoe.
Let a rose be all things beautiful and true.

The Graceful Rider

I recall the asphalt—a blur
beneath—and my days
at the school of tachometry.
All my dreams had chrome
tailpipes and handlebars.
They shone like a vision.
I leaned into the turns
until the foot pegs scraped.
Hardtop suited me just fine.

I evoke the throttle’s spirit—
the twist and release—
and the engine’s heat.
They moved me, but pavement
takes a toll; ditches are replete.
All those close calls,
falls, and crashes hurt,
but I never refused the road.
I crossed the double line

before I slowed.
Then came the graceful rider.
He rode from days of old
on everlasting tires
because the time had come.
When he spoke I shattered,
but he whispered to each piece;
for every shard he shouted.
His voice was bread and wine.   

Pursuit was his standard
and he tattooed me with fire.
I ducked and dodged
and rolled with bent desire,
but he planned my course.
He pierced and purchased—
broke my bones and mended—
then caught me with a look…
He saw a man born blind.

When my will failed, he gripped.
He healed my road-rash knees,
rebuilt my make and model;
he saw to parts unseen
and my gears made changes.
Rubber on the street
moved me to new places.
Beneath chain and sprocket
I saw narrow roads unwind.               

Beautiful Girl #8

Starry Night Over The Rhone

Beautiful girl, it’s to your sky
I draw my gaze.  Your starry night
has ways to catch and hold my eye.

Though I am often caught in town,
you still appear.  You captivate,
though city light would keep me down.

You beckon to that country place
and, there, decry the well lit streets
and parking lots as lesser grace.

Your sky reveals an ageless cheer:
though stars unveiled by darkest night
are far, they beg us to draw near.

Baseball In A Box

Baseball provided by Placido Polanco and the old Busch Stadium

I have a baseball in a box—
a leather pearl—on my shelf.
The box is clear to show

red stitches and a smudge
on Rawlings where the bat
greeted it with a rough kiss.

I gaze at it and conjure up
the errant arc over first base;
the upraised arms and hands

that would have a lofted relic:
HERE IT COMES!
I cried, and grabbed it.

Some guy exclaimed
he too had touched the pearl,
but the usher arrived

to check my fingers.
All too soon,
the sting quit my skin.

A baseball had graced me!
I put it in a box to burn
my palm, again, another day.