Haiku–Shuffling to Nowhere

There is nothing more
distracted than a tired
old truck driver lost.



(from thetruckersreport.com)

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Haiku–Who dat?

Five Olympic rings;
one for each continent there?
Someone is missing.


Posted in Haiku, Poem, Sport | Tagged , | 2 Comments


A simple pine cone:
lying alone on the ground.
It needs a squirrel.


gray with pinecone

(top: dreamstime.com; bottom: flickr.com)

Posted in Haiku, Poem, Wildlife | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments

Haiku–No Glasses

Seeking fresh protein,
a small fuzzy morning bird
walks up a tree trunk.

bushtit on tree

bushtit on tree2


(top: lynxed.com; bottom: vickiehenderson.blogspot.com)

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Bastards of Pain

So, what do you do when
the bastards of pain
camp on your front porch?
Do you politely ask them to leave?
Or do you wade into
them with rage and a machete?
Usually, with pain—physical, emotional,
whatever—the bastards like to watch.
Maybe if they can’t see you hurting
they’ll break camp and go find another porch.
Maybe it’s best to stare straight ahead,
even smile a small knowing smile,
and fool them into thinking that you
don’t feel a thing out of the ordinary.
Go ahead, wash your front windows
and let them get a good look.

pain sign

(from shutterstock.com)

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Bluebird Words on a Raptor Day

Seldom does it do any good
to read a poem as you
fall asleep. The page
flashes two, three times
and suddenly you know
there is no going on.
Surrender is sweet.
Sometimes, the unread poem

gets trapped and the part
of you that doesn’t sleep
chews it like a happy bone.
Perhaps you awaken early
and the unread poem has
etched something into the
stone of your brain where
the day’s work begins.




(bluebird: 10000birds.com; swallow-tailed kite: raptorresearchfoundation.org)

Posted in Birds, Consciousness, Poem, Sleep, Work, Writing | Tagged , , , , | 3 Comments

Snow Poem

(Note: It’s 93 here, so I’ve been thinking of snow. We Oregonians are heat wimps.–jrs)

Snow time:
gift wrap around all
I can see from my
perch by the
Christmas morning fire.
Small tracks
split the front yard,
seeking sleigh sign.


(from epictomato.com)

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Grill Rhymes with Thrill

Waiting for coals;
the charcoal is still just warm.
Oh, there is intense heat
at the bottom of the stack,
but it needs to spread throughout
and proffer a red and white glow
that hollers “Caution!”
(Note: never work a grill barefoot.)

Dense protein awaits its ultimate fate.
It is a timeless custom, this
cooking of meat.
My ancestors, not so long ago
did not view this as recreation,
it was simply the way of it.
Today, men view grilling as a sacred right.
To the Old Ones it was women’s work.

We’ve come a long way.
Nowadays “women’s work”
is anything a man can do.
Nowadays men gather firewood, too,
and roll out household garbage
and harvest grass to compost.
We even have bottles to mimic breastfeeding.
That high-pitched whine?

The Old Ones are spinning in their tombs.
Let ‘em spin.


Travel across nostalgic Tajikistan through the high Pamir Mountains and the region of Gorno-Badakshan, today under growing Chinese influence. Inhabited by the Pamiri community, the East holds striking cultural differences with the West, due to the Ismaili

(top: cookingonthetrail.wordpress.com; bottom: paleyphoto.photoshelter.com)

Posted in American history, American Indian, Outdoor cooking | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

Link: Fireworks Filmed With a Drone


This is just breathtaking.

Originally posted on Exploratorius:

View original

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Reminders in Early July

(The Fourth is a grand holiday. It’s my sister’s birthday. We live in a truly great country where we are mostly safe and enjoy opportunities rare in the big picture. Most often, I am proud to be American. But…  –jrs)

Who wants to remember:
the stench of the dead,
smoking bushes, skeletons
festooned with body pieces,
Dali meets Bosch;
this body’s for you.

Who can forget:
our most uncivil war,
atoms and flash burns blinding a generation;
a minuteman, cocked hat askew,
plays big cop on the corner of World and Peace;
the freedom to revel in politically correct enmity.

We celebrate a history of war:
mimicry of small arms and cannon,
young eyes alight with power,
smoke and flame in the streets,
dangerous delight;
living on old glory.



Posted in American history, memory, Poem | Tagged , , | 2 Comments