Bee bumbles...

Bee bumbles 
on little purple flowers--
why is he alone?

A Sorta Kinda Haiku & a Sorta Kinda Tanka

Night comes, and
those little yellow flowers
have closed up shop.


-------


Tufts of green with
those little yellow flowers,
settled in the cracks
between pieces of gray cement--
and people call them weeds!

Two Haiku

The old graveyard--
hot sun filters down
through green leaves.

---------------

Little white fingers trace
sculpted grave statues--
filtered sunlight.


As a child, I spent at least part of my summers with my two aunts in Placerville. My favorite aunt, Annie, was very involved with a church very near an old graveyard there.  I would go over there and play, reading the stones, touching the statues, feeling the summer heat even in the shade of the trees. It was a peaceful place, with headstones and statues that were beautiful to me. 

Not a Haiku

You remind me of hard rock
and mullets
and Chevys carefully painted with primer;
of boys who never liked me in high school,
who wore hatred as casually as a t-shirt
and as lovingly as a favorite pair of jeans.
And, instantly!, I'm fifteen and ugly again --
feeling alone, fumbling with a cigarette,
wishing you'd deign to just look at me, and
maybe like me just a little.