21
Shy but rugged stars
Have hiked the hills
But never walk the streets
22
I could spend all night
Viewing the moon and writing.
Or I could sleep-dream
23
The cop who stops to weep
On the shoulder of the road
Slows a thousand speeders
24
Caught on the tracks
After tagging a train car.
Second coat still wet
25
When a cry for help
Is hard on your health.
Saxophone doth wail, wail
16
Stars make faces
When they tread the spaces
Between themselves and Earth
17
Full summer-moon
And arch of garden hose—
You too can make a moonbow
18
Mississippi
And Ohio confluence—
Almost an ocean
19
Spending a summer’s night reading—
June bug fights the window screen
20
Can I love everyone at once?
Moon shrouded
By only a bit of haze
16
Stars make faces
When they tread the spaces
Between themselves and Earth
17
Full summer-moon
And arch of garden hose—
You too can make a moonbow
18
Mississippi
And Ohio confluence—
Almost an ocean
19
Spending a summer’s night reading—
June bug fights the window screen
20
Can I love everyone at once?
Moon shrouded
By only a bit of haze
6
I’d take out a loan
to get at those nachos—
yes to jalapeños
7
Out-of-town scoreboard
illuminates the moon—
pennant race deepens
8
Only one of these teams
will see October—
nighthawks catch flies under lights
9
Oh, why couldn’t we
have scored some runs earlier—
closer warming
10
Father and son speechless
at a game in June.
Pitcher comes up lame again.
6
Pure black
laced with violets—
nothingness.
7
Stop
forest fires, fight
lightning—
8
My robes torn,
slowly I descend
the mountain.
9
Even God laughed
when the preacher
told us jokes.
10
No-one can resist
gossip in your cafés—
oh, Paris.
1
The distant percussion
of a woodpecker—
Let’s make ice cream!
2
Asleep on the edge
of the bed,
marriage is not for cynics
3
Sitting here waiting
for the coming disease,
smoking my cigarette
4
Moon bright enough
to read your poems by,
the yard aglow with dew
5
Sunflowers
break the cloudbank,
feeding eagles
1
Complete games
aren’t what they used to be—
bullpens exploding
2
Pitcher wipes his brow,
sun peaks out from clouds—
there goes the runner!
3
It’s lonely on the bench
when you’re pitching well—
no-hitter brewing
4
Ash tree gave its life
for a thousand home runs—
Hall of Fame material
5
It’s past my bedtime
but I’ll listen all night—
extra innings
Is it June, or am I
just in Austin, Texas?
Today, Labor Day, is for
all of the people who work
nine to five (or more).
Anyone normally working
nine to five (or more)
who has neglected
to take this day off to:
get drunk
sleep around the house
take his kid to the beach
write a haiku
stock up on toilet paper
should be committed.
Not myself among the
nine to five throng
I don’t deserve this
wheelbarrow loaded with
twenty-four golden bricks.
No meaning in any of them.
JBR.com 