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

Cashier

Sunday morning,
after church shopping list:
bananas
bread
bologna
tomato soup
diapers.

At the register
the cashier
runs to grab a flier,
plucks the coupon
for five dollars off
any size Pampers. 

We make our way
toward home—
plastic sacks,
hungry kids,
full air in all four tires.

Catch Again

I’m ready.  Toss the ball.
Grounders.  Pop-up.
WATCH OUT FOR THE BABY!

Whoa!  Nice one!
Good arm!
That knocked the dust off my mitt!

Whoops, crazy hop!
Get your glove up.
Switch sides, I’ve got sunglasses.

You throw what I throw.
I want to do a jump catch.
Hey!  That’s too high!

Dad, watch this…TRICKED YA!
You didn’t even know
I had a tennis ball.

Suppertime?!  Just one more
—I mean one of each—
grounders, pop-up, fastball.

Do we have to go in?
Okay.  Hey Dad?
When can we play catch again?

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.

Bathtub

Bathtime!

I’m in the tub
and here’s the rub:
Mom says to get out soon.

The water’s warm,
and what’s the harm
in wrinkles like a prune?

I’m staying in!
Look, I can swim!
Let’s sing another tune.

Now close your eyes.
Here’s a surprise:
It’s me!—your goose-bump-goon.

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.