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to the Modern American Haiku Poets
John Stevenson's Haiku
moths
on the door
I close
and lock
a few leaves
left on the tree
we have our talk
week after Christmas
an empty throne
in the mall
hope
without knowing what for
autumn colors
snowy night
sometimes you can't be
quiet enough
country diner
a ceiling fan turns
paper snowflakes
scuba diving
cloud shadows
on the coral
one last look
through the old apartment
a dry sponge . . .
trial separation
ice distends
the rain gutters
signs of spring
the expiration date
on fat-free milk
May sun
Im the one
the puppy comes to
green grass
my hopes
just so high
Mothers Day
that first breath of air
outside the door
September morning
none of the students
has failed . . .
autumn wind
the leaves are going
where Im going
walking home
from church
sun on the other side
of my face
September sunset
cows come single file
through the pasture gate
shooting star
what do fish
see at night?
a hard rain
what cloud
could have held it?
peony bud
can an ant
relax?
childhood home
twilight
as I arrive
almost spring
the untouched mousetraps
in the attic
summer night
the sound of a car
about to go by
parkas
out shopping
for a wedding dress
coming home
on the train
. . . the backyards
fireworks
I close my eyes
for a second look
right now
while we chat
fish in the deep ocean
Amish country
the deer beside the road
stare at us
a change in
their voices
children finding
a fledgling
warm evening
an open door
to someone’s living room
old slippers
the comfort
coming apart
her eyes narrow,
seeing for the first time
my little house
winter beach
a piece of driftwood
charred at one end
the three-year-old
making their big dog
sit
wind-beaten
marquee
saying only
"Coming Soon"
the train picks
up speed,
in a paper coffee cup
concentric waves
bright
leaves
blow through
her dream house
winter,
bedtime
static flickers
through a white sleeve
walking
home barefoot,
we enter the shadow
of the hill
All
Saints morning
a path
of trodden leaves
cold
saturday—
drawn back into bed
by my own warmth
too
quick to reply
cutting my tongue
on the envelope
under
the
blackest doodle
something unerasable
bouncing
along
on the guardrails
car shadow
checking
the driver
as I pass a car
just like mine
tourist
town
postcards of the waterfall
racked upside down
deliberations
on a charge of murder
turning spring outside
the river always
out there in the dark
late train home
moon breaks over the hill
a dreaming driver
dims his brights