Back in 2015, at my mom’s suggestion, I wrote 365 haiku for 365 days, and she did the same. (Here’s January.)
This time, she suggested the same challenge, but just for the summer (June 21 – September 22).
Here’s the first of a planned three months of summer haiku. This time, unlike before, I tried to include some element from the human world and something from the natural world in every poem. I’m happy with how most of them have turned out so far.
#1 — 6/21/18
Beneath my sandals
tree roots live, deeper than graves
and more numerous.
#2 — 6/22/18
Morning sky is here,
covered in paper-gray clouds,
yet to be unwrapped.
#3 — 6/23/18
Early afternoon;
wary rabbit sees my son
watching her; a breeze.
#4 — 6/24/18
Small rapid footsteps,
long grass, furnace takes a break.
Essence of summer.
#5 — 6/25/18
My mind, strong old ox,
plows in all seasons. Great ox,
you are slow today.
#6 — 6/27/18
Soft warmth, morning dark.
Child on my lap gulps his milk.
Windows shake with rain.
#7 — 6/27/18
Bleak day. Grumpy thoughts.
Grass embraces blade and storm;
I fight, I retreat.
#8 — 6/28/18
Pain is a dark dog —
faithful, persistent, hungry.
He knows just one trick.
#9 — 6/30/18
Fresh-cut bell peppers
crowd the tray. Carrots, mushrooms.
Noon sky burns the deck.
#10 — 6/30/18
Three children sleeping.
Intermission: adult sounds
emerge like rabbits.
#11 — 7/1/18
Heels in kiddie pool.
Day is heavy with slow heat.
Still the robins sing.
#12 — 7/3/18
Jaw aches and buzzes,
still half-numb after dentist.
Tree limbs sway and shine.
#13 — 7/3/18
Parcels of nature,
bounded by curbs, sidewalks, boards,
wriggle past their lines.
#14 — 7/4/18
Early July sun
washes trucks and apple trees
in its boundless bath.
#15 — 7/5/18
Headache, pain in back:
small complaints. Gentle weather,
coffee, peaceful heart.
#16 — 7/6/18
Hour before sunrise.
Stars fade — ghosts of yesterday,
omens of today.
#17 — 7/8/18
Sun sinks, quiet house.
What will the clouds do all night
while I sleep below?
#18 — 7/8/18
Hearts, like rivers, grow
polluted, and are only
cleaned by flowing on.
#19 — 7/9/18
Sun sinks, quiet house.
Busy brain searches and sorts
and sorts and searches.
#20 — 7/10/18
Quick fireflies at dusk
weave and rise among shadows,
crossing my window.
#21 — 7/11/18
Too much time inside.
Sunlight through glass panes is like
a roarless lion.
#22 — 7/13/18
Bristling with needles,
green backyard-monster keeps watch,
nodding at my roof.
#23 — 7/13/18
Apple’s leafy nest
stretches skyward, lifting it
above the white fence.
#24 — 7/16/18
Sidewalk-chalk jungle:
loops and letters on driveway
know nothing of rain.
#25 — 7/16/18
Bird crosses my path
as I drive, reddish brown blur
on secret errand.
#26 — 7/16/18
Trash bags by the curb
recline like early pumpkins,
ready for harvest.
#27 — 7/17/18
Crowds of dandelions,
bald, lanky, uninvited,
gather and survive.
#28 — 7/19/18
Gladness of being
waves hello like an old friend
or a flowing tide.
#29 — 7/19/18
Washing machine sings —
strange bird, flightless and hungry,
loyal to its mate.
#30 — 7/20/18
Rain comes round again,
gentle and taking its time,
darkening the street.
#31 — 7/23/18
Deer sits placidly
on a low hill near daycare.
Evan waves to it.
#32 — 7/23/18
Magic of morning
gives each room fresh potential
nestled in shadow.
#33 — 7/23/18
Where is happiness?
Which limb, on what tree, offers
this elusive fruit?
Brian D. Buckley 