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her sigh and crickets on the cool breeze.
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daveboyer
I try to write modern haiku. I'm sure I have some other interests too... But that's the short and long of it.
54
Stories
11
Followers
Stories by @daveboyer (54)
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Independence Day the old dog's ashes.
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the full pink moon drops into the dawn of a bad habit.
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midsummer uphill both ways.
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for each spice the catbird finds a new voice.
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waiting for the fan to pass again the carpet too red.
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slow turns of black wings alone in all this sky.
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summer clouds the bright white pages of the book I didn't read.
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a band-aid stuck to the cracked pavement the heat.
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severe storm warning I carefully fold the morning.
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spent my days traveling time and the mockingbird.
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under my fingernails the unending song of clouds.
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even though I wrote it down the butterfly stays.
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the air conditioner drips onto my sleepless eyes.
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I cough the scent of clover in the cool morning.
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the pill I have to swallow at twilight sparrows still chirping.
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so many colorful feathers cling to the crushed bones.
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waves break beneath my skin the beginning of fire.
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banking hard to chase a crow training wheels come off.
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on the rough soil of the sea so many words corrode.
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fine rain a new post code in the city of the dead.
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sticky heat my soles black with mulberries.
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what is still allowed among soft curves of cloud.
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a week of travel over my leaky sink in the setting sun.
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September cobwebs in the kettle.
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between dusty syllables light from ancient stars.
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a row of birds still in the sun before the dark hills.
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sun gleams off car horns and chlorine in the breeze.
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no reception at dawn I slowly embrace an unwanted freedom.
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almost bent in half on the lawn an old woman eats a peach.
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letting go it swims to the deepest part of the river.
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deep in the bones of my toes the wedding songs of toads.
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the sound of gulls bisects the awkward love triangle.
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woken by my own moan as wide as the moon.
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just enough of a push the crane soars above the treetops.
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hands across his chest he worries about wealth old squirrel.
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summer half over the fountain sparkles with pennies.
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softly from deep inside the fog the voice that wants me dead.
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the moving van moves a sweetness remembering summer.
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alone a bird I've never seen looks at me the same way.
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thin white skin of rain the puzzle back in the drawer.
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the squirrel narrowly escapes the wheel in my mind.
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in the darkened window my ghost leaves fall.
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From the current issue of Roadrunner
returning without souvenirs the year the dog dies.
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numbers stop making sense the pops and whirrs of a starling.
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Haiku isn't paint by number. It's not just an empty counting of syllables. It's the spark that happens when you put two images together and throw away everything that isn't absolutely necessary..
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waiting for the miracle wheat flies over the ocean.
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the town's broken clock the color of the snowstorm.
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pieces of the week still in my pocket tiny seeds of mint.
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traffic update the green streak of a hummingbird.
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I believe the lie a plastic bag caught in bare branches.
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Frozen grass I breathe out just to see the cloud.
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she hold the umbrella and smiles spring.
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one train passing another all the dark faces.
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