National Poetry Month 30/30- A Haiku/Senryu a Day

April mist-
on the leaves
on her lips

dawn sky
among brown branches
only cherry blossoms

This waitress' smile-
splash of Blackberry brandy
in evening tea

Trying to ignore
the waitress ignoring me-
Dealer splits the pot.

Her sidelong glance-
white foam roiling
a wave

Smiling
back from Break-
with Sambuca breath.

Fresh Pizza-
seagull takes a sideways
glance.

summer darkness-
Licorice lingering
on her tongue

April drizzle-
Pit Bull soaking the side of
a Porta-John.

ordering
water from the waitress-
voice cracking

tall grass
Tiger crouches, staring-
the ball?

April afternoon-
deer nibbling the
Driving Range

at the lip
of the cup-
Sunset

April dusk-
this flag loudly snapping
my back tightens

Ghost
whose shadow is memory-
river turning

April 15th-
counting what is left of
my fingernails

Jazz and cocktails
your siren song to tempt me-
Again wrong

Essay on Etheridge-
Gang Starr from a speaker
Guru rest in peace.

Rain beads on glass-
An armful of white blossoms
on black branches.

Starry night-
Beside this ATM
bank of Lilies.

Swirling
as she turns away-
April breeze.

Sunset, a song
falls across her shoulders-
"Love is Found"

steady rain-
a goose broken in the road
its mate honking

low fog-
high coo of a mourning
dove

Milky fog  starless
ocean stretches to pour-
waiting

the rain
slashing through-
leaves

after gunshots-
the front steps splashed in red
lights

Easter morning-
biscuits in the oven
rising

In this soldier's scope
the wide eye of a Nikon-
unblinking

Falling softly-
fingers on guitar strings
Phoebe Snow

crossing the bridge
steel riveted truss-
holding hands

iron span
arching the river-
her bare back

What may be

On Poker and Peppers

. . . things that grew loud when the street grew empty,
and breaths that let themselves be breathed
to freight a human argument,
and sidelong glances in the midst of things . . .
Jorie Graham

Never had much interest
in being smooth
like the skin of a pepper
or slick as the seeds inside,
(not because I didn't want to be hot)
but because like
a cayenne red lipstick,
slick wears off too quick.
Never minded looking naive,
it causes the slicksters
to show their hands.
We all make different choices,
but my friends are the ones
who tell me the truth
about the strength of my hand.

Perhaps there was a naive boy
with a dream.
And when I ask you
on the phone
if we will ever pick
cayenne peppers together,
you say "Maybe."
All gardeners know that maybes
can be like cayennes on the vine,
this one green as a Yes,
that one yellow as Perhaps,
the other bright red as No.

Gardeners choose
which peppers get picked

and by whom.

You could have said
that you don't pick peppers
with poker players,
but you said "Maybe."
And maybe I'm just a boy
with a naive dream,
maybe only slicksters get
to pick those peppers,
maybe somebody bluffed
(which is part of the game),
maybe they forgot
they would have to
turn over their hand,
maybe one day they'll realize
how much it costs

to get called . . .