apologies to groucho

Outside of the cat,
a book's my best friend. Inside,
it's too dark to read.

...

Finally warm enough
to escape the apartment
and walk in the park.

rainy Sunday

Maybe pneumonia
or maybe not. Either way,
antibiotics.


Outside, grey and rain;
curled up with me on the couch,
a grey cat, inside.

Saturday, mea culpa

AKA Farewell Jillisa


Perhaps redundant,
another mad poet heads
for Ireland now.

And now a departure, in celebration of Jillisa's departure, for mature audiences only:

Off to Ireland for all of the craic
Jillisa may never come back
Oh those glib Irishmen
are so skilled with the pen
and fond of fair maidens in black.

Oh, Kilkenny's a literary town,
where scholars and poets abound.
With their noses in books
is how scholars will fooks
and they might even buy the next round.

the office

as if a hornet,
i am attempting to build
a nest of paper

Thursday

Hedonistically
I consume mussels in cream
and good company.

My nose plays tricks.
I could positively swear
I smell fresh doughnuts.

thirteen

Has it been two weeks
or four? I can't remember
the last time I shaved.

No, seriously.
The Christmas decorations
need to go away.

Seven on Richter,
but on the scale of sadness,
goes to eleven

Twelfth

Christmas is over
the tiny silver forest
returns to its box.

Moving old files
would be alot easier
with the right cable.

Madly purring cat
perched beside me on sofa
tries to chew modem.

Zombie porn, biscuits,
jazz, blues, and Marc Bolan make
good conversation.

Still Cold

Robotic counting:
are there enough syllables
to make this haiku?

Meeting-rich Monday,
trying not to pull faces
at improper times.

Never one for ice,
I finally get a cold drink
leaving glass on floor.

Hello, my name is
Mimi and I write haiku.
Rather awkwardly

My hands ache with cold.
Broke out the fingerless gloves
to fight off the chill.

Sunday

Mom's coming over.
Maybe the smell of baking
will cover the mess.

The bread still tastes good,
even if it didn't rise.
It's just a bit dense.

Why do normal folk
turn into crazed psychopaths
in parking garages?

Saturday morning

Craving hot coffee
but with Mayorga gone,sigh,
tea will have to do.

Make a cuppa tea,
remember to turn off flame
before slurping chai.

Technical difficulties

The old laptop's toast.
The new one's yet to arrive.
Radio silence?

Snow—but less of it.

Microscopic text
in Pennsylvania Dutch
what a bizarre dream.

Ah revenge is sweet
flaming shots for birthday girl
at the pirate bar...

Candy floss, fairy dust
couldn't be any sweeter
than fluffy white snow

Monochromatic,
the park's an illustration
in a tale by Grimm

misc.

Anticipation
an-ti-cee-pay-ay-ay-shun
is making me wait.

Day Seven

After a whole week
I haven't given up yet
on this haiku thing.

Is it Thursday? It
must be. I never could get
the hang of Thursdays.

mid-week

I need to relax,
get silly, and have more fun
a-writin' haiku.

Facebook chat at noon
leaves me feeling more worried
and not a whit less.

Parking lot ice bergs:
how big are they if the bulk's
below road surface?

Sweet tones of Groucho—
Lydia the Tattoed Lady—
echo in my brain.

Tuesday

The joy of youtube,
new discoveries every day
help delay deadlines.

Churned, yet frozen,
the creek surface resembles
sugary maple fudge.

If not for road salt,
I'd be driving the red car
even in bitter cold.

Thirty years ago
an album was released, and
London's still burning.

Cowbell, super eight—
my friends are outdoing me
writing fun haiku.

A plastic toy scoots
across the window ledge and
shouts, "Exterminate!"

Back to work

Work happy hour
worried about what I'll say
after glass of wine.

Scratching at my neck
"inspected by 19" sez
the irritant.

"Your mailbox is full."
Have more irritating words
ever existed?

Wind!

Out, trees exercise
enthusiastically;
inside, I shiver.

With strong wind gusting
up to forty miles per hour
even I say "brrr."

Still out of it—
supper will never be done
if it's not turned on.

Day Two

To a blank mind
comes parthenogenesis.
A poem is born.

The fierce predator
drags his kill across the floor—
poor, mangled waffle.

Cough syrup chokes with
a cloying sweet,lingering,
dry opiate taste.

New Year's Day

Two days of coughing;
expelling the old, bad year
with each wracking breath.

I can't feel my feet.
The twenty-one pound grey cat
is curled up on them.