Guest Book

full-fox-print-color-corrected-reducedWelcome!  Please read some of my poetry while you’re here. Even if a post is two years old, they’re being read every day. They’re all current. Feel free to join the conversation. Lastly, treat this post as a Guest Book. Offer suggestions, improvements, requests or just say Hello! If you have a question concerning poetry or a poem, click read more at the end of this sentence and fill out the form. Continue reading

July 22nd 2016

·
searing
····the grasses—the cry of summer’s first
········cicada
·
·
I had been wondering when I would hear the first cicada and heard it yesterday. The cicadas in Vermont are less haunting that those in Ohio—the place of my childhood. In Ohio we called them locusts. The cry of the Ohio locust isn’t a steady cry but a rise and fall in volume—the same pitch growing in volume three times until it fades and drops in pitch. To my childhood ears the cries always heralded autumn and seemed tinged with regret. Parts of Ohio are swarming, this year, with the 17 year locust. The creatures look fearsome but are utterly harmless to touch or hold.
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254 July 22nd 2016 | bottlecap
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July 21st 2016

·
after
····the mowing—an ox-eye daisy and the lone
········sun
·
·
That time of year the tractors have come out to mow the median and the highway’s shoulders. The beautiful colors are burned to a papery foil without their roots in the moist earth. The evenings are suffused with the drying smell of the cut grasses.
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253 July 21st 2016 | bottlecap
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July 20th 2016

·
one
····telephone pole after another—morning’s mist
········brightens
·
·
There is a little brook out back of my back door—just three or four steps and you’ll stand in water. Every summer, crossing the bridge to the barn, I’ll catch sight of one or two fish.
·
also
····returning to its source—a brook trout swims
········upstream
·
252 July 20th 2016 | bottlecap
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July 19th 2016

Last night was my two hundred fiftieth haiku. I continue to edit it. I remember when I wrote my hundredth and two hundredth haiku. I wanted to write something extraordinary, but it never works that way. I’m the opposite of a clutch-hitter.
·
so
····little rain—as if the wildflowers might spark
········fires
·
·
Today was beautiful, warm with a cooling breeze, and I was sorry to see it go.
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251 July 19th 2016 | bottlecap
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July 17th 2016

Sometimes I think my best coinages happen because of my absent-minded reading. I often misread words, even my own, and decide the misreading is better than the original intent. Thinking of my moth in the downpour, I keep reading down as dawn, as if my muse would remind me that there’s another revelation there.
·
no
····trail to follow—the moth fluttering into
········dawn
·
I like to think a haiku like this captures something of an experience I had—a brush with death and a glimpse of a world I’d call home. A moth may live out its life in darkness until some given dawn when it flies where none follow, at least for a little while.
·di
rows
····of grackles on the powerline—all of them
········critics
·
·
·
249 July 17th 2016 | bottlecap
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July 16th 2016

·
mid-
····summer—the gleaming pepper’s cool
········shadow
·
·
Lately, and every night, I almost think I’m out of ideas. Just let it go for one night. But I don’t. Not yet. I’ve noticed, recently, that the habit of thought in writing haiku, of imagery, begins influence my writing in general. I like that.
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248 July 16th 2016 | bottlecap
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July 15th 2016

·
leaving
····no trail—a moth fluttering through the down-
········pour
·
·
Today’s haiku was inspired yesterday. I went out without a raincoat and was grateful for the rain after so much heat—still cool compared to some parts of the world, but hot for Vermont. Walking down a path that cuts through a wildflower field, my path was crossed by a white moth during the heaviest minutes of the downpour. How such a little creature can fly in the heaviest rainfall astonishes me.
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247 July 15th 2016 | bottlecap
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