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Michael Ketchek's Haiku

in passing
to another waitress
her real smile

4 AM
in the darkened mirror
no grey in my beard

wind blown snow
never quite covers
the branch's shadow

twilight
a bit of wilted kale
above the snow

ruffed grouse
its little peaked head
bobs in roadside weeds

February thaw
the snowbank melted down
to December's snow

all those grandma hours
woven into those dozens
of black braids

sunlight squeezes through
the blinds--my son wrestles
with his dreams

playing in the mud
making sense
of the world

my boy, so serious
pointing to the globe
I live here

nap time
in the nursery--the toys
lie so still

my boy in his crib
tucking him in again
before going to bed

dog days of summer
twenty-three games
out of first

ten minutes to five
the goldfish
swim back and forth

moonlit snow
deep black footprints
cross the field

damp morning
below a second story window
the smashed TV

outside the home
in her wheelchair
smoking

the carnations
of Wang Chi now dust
still their scent

nude beach
embarassed
I'm the only one here

dusk
was that the day's
last chirp?

black silhouette
of the nuclear reactor;
northern lights

always
this pane of glass
between our fingertips

the olive grove
far older than the border
which divides it

first day of school
the line of children
at the pencil sharpener

autumn afternoon
wind blown leaves
caught by the brush pile

forgotten path
each year narrowing
into woods

sweeping the walk
one blue shoe, dew covered
in the flower bed

summer evening
light that touched the moon
touching me

thinking about
mindfulness
I pee on my shoe

evening snow
in the parking lot one car
partially remains

how lumpy
the mattress that was new
when you were pregnant

unwinding
an ancient Chinese scroll
with my mouse

snowy woods
walking by the spot where
we made love last summer

equinox night
the faucet drip drips
into autumn

almost midnight
I order one more drink
before stepping into tomorrow

late summer walk
choosing a path
I've never taken

country cemetery
a string of weathered gravestones
up a little hill

watching the news—
I whisper to my sleeping son
I'm sorry

bad form
his haircut more expensive
than hers

sexy bra
the pattern of lace
the pattern of skin

turning fifty
still the lake laps
at the same rocks

still summer evening
cigar smoke hangs
in the humidity

sitting on the lawn
setting my beer
in my own shadow

the singer’s mini-skirt
closing my eyes
to hear the band

black night, black bears —
in the tent she decides
she doesn’t have to pee