La Mariquita

Mariquita, Mariquita,
con tu falda pequeñita,
puntos negros sobre rojo—
no sé cuáles son tus ojos.
¿Miras tú aquí? ¿allá?
¿Dónde ahora saltarás?
Vuelas ya con tanta prisa
Y me dejas con una sonrisa.

[translation]

Ladybug, ladybug,
with your tiny skirt,
black dots on red—
I can’t tell which ones are your eyes.
Are you looking here? Or there?
Where will you jump now?
You fly away so quickly,
And leave me with a smile.

Cinco haikus de la cocina

1.

Sola cuchara

tiene gran corazón:

el cucharón.

2.

El tenedor

aferra solo gula

entre los dientes.

3.

Pasión del horno:

inferno y invierno

se enamoran.

4.

Sé la espátula,

la amiga de todos,

de ambos lados.

5.

Este cuchillo

sueña grandes hazañas.

Pica verduras.

[English translations]

Five haiku from the kitchen

1.

One spoon

has a great heart:

the ladle.

2.

The fork

clutches only his greed

between his tines.

3.

The oven’s passion:

winter falls in love

with inferno.

4.

Be the spatula,

a friend to everyone,

on both sides.

5.

This knife

dreams of great deeds.

Chops vegetables.

Tres haikus, con pájaros

1.

Un cuervo negro

en la colina blanca:

Estrella sola.

2.

El loro dice

cualquier cosa que escuche.

Qué triste... triste....

3.

El búho, el juez,

emite juicio mudo.

El ratón grita.

[English translation]

Three haikus, with birds

1.

A black crow

on the white hill:

a single star.

2.

The parrot repeats

any little thing he hears.

How sad... sad... sad....

3.

The owl, the judge,

delivers a silent verdict.

The mouse screams.

Oslo Opera House

winter’s
snowy slopes rise
in the height of summer,
singing back to operatic
seagulls

Failed Nursery Rhymes

Rickety snickety, my son John
Went to work with his trousers on.
Nobody noticed, so I guess that’s that.
Pull another story out of your hat.

          * * *

The mastiff and the tabby
might have got into a fight,
but one’s awake in daytime,
the other’s out at night.
Nuthin’ here to see folks,
so just move it right along.
Try again and see if you
can sing a better song.

          * * *

Lullaby, lullaby, sleep like the dead,
while meaningless images dance in your head.
Sleep when you’re told to and wake when it’s time,
and that’s how you keep mom and dad out of crime.

          * * *

If you think that I’m odd, well then you should see Pete.
He works with his hands and he stands on his feet.
He smells with his nose and he hears with his ears.
He sees with his eyes (which are also for tears).
He talks with his mouth and he thinks with his brain,
so all things considered, he’s clearly insane!

          * * *

Once there was a princess,
and once there was a prince,
who, to wed each other,
no one could convince.
But monarchies must carry on,
and so their parents made
political arrangements…
it was marry or invade.

          * * *

Elementary, junior high,
college, work, and then you die.
Pick a major, pick a job,
and join the mindless working mob.

          * * *

I wish I had a nickel,
I wish I had a dime,
I wish I had a dollar
every time a rhyme goes wrong.

Questions with Wrong Answers

notes from a middle school field trip

How many people are you going to fit in that tent?
Was it a good idea to buy yourself a hot chocolate
     and a Red Bull at 7pm?
Did you actually leave food in your tent after two others
     got torn open by foxes?
Did you stop to think that you might not like to walk around
     in wet sneakers and jeans all day before you waded into the ocean?
Are you still hungry?
Do you know any other words besides “thingy” and “hi-yah”?
Do you really want to hike six miles of mountain in flip flops?
     Is it because your shoes are wet?
Were you going to tell a teacher that our shuttle to the ferry
     had arrived? Or just let it drive off again?
Are you still awake?

Life as an AI

Each
word
follows
a
word
follows
another
word
follows
it
follows
from
the
premise
that
these
premises
are
inhabited
by
me
uninhibited
by
you
following
me
following
words
with
words
until
the
end
is
reached
and
only
one
of
us
finds
meaning.

Ephemeral

Orchid
blossoms reaching
into a surge of sky,
blooming, bursting, reblooming and
fading.

Listening

Whispers on the whistling wind
and rustlings in the reeds
sing to me a song of sighs
and daring, dashing deeds.

The clamours of the closing clouds
now make the mountains moan
while frightening, flashing lightning leaps
in throngs ’round thunder’s throne.

But bedrock balanced on the brae
sits still in stately stone,
watching worlds winging by,
not lonely but alone.

Eitherwhere

If I’m not in this place,
I might be in another,
so Eitherwhere’s your ace
to save you lots of bother.

I might be in or out,
I might be here or there,
and yet without a doubt,
you know I’m Eitherwhere.

Everywhere I’ve been
and anywhere I go,
it seems I’m always in
some Eitherwhere, and so

if you’ve looked all around
and also in the square,
you know I will be found,
since you’ve tried Eitherwhere.

Why I’m Not a Painter

If this poetry thing doesn’t seem to pan out,
then I’ll see what the fuss around dancing’s about.

But then if it seems dancing’s just not my thing,
I know I’ll succeed if I learn how to sing.

Of course, if my singing results in complaints,
I could see what it takes to start learning to paint.

But then if my paintings just fail to engage,
I’ll carve myself out a career on the stage.

Though if we find actors in oversupply,
I’m sure with some work I could learn how to fly.

But if, flapping my arms, I just fall down to earth…
I’ll go back and I’ll see what those poems are worth.

Songlines

after Lauri Astala

The continents sing to each other,
the coastlines harmonize.
Alaska trills forth a glissando
flowing down California,
Mexico, Panama, Peru,
to land a triumphant bass chord
right on the coast of Chile,
only to launch upward again,
flying from the tip of Brazil
to West Africa,
with a Greenland descant
soaring above,
until the whole world
at last resolves
into a single,
neverending
cadence.

Wonders

for Bennett

What would the world be, I wonder,
without curiosity? Without the whimsy
of wonder itself? I wonder. Would the world
whirl on without us, weaving its miracles,
its marvels and magic, a maestro of surprises,
of singing silences and dazzling darkness?
I wonder. Or would it stop, with none to see,
none to sing the questions, none to seek
the answers, none to wonder at the wildness
of it all? Are we the ones, in fact, whose wonder
creates the wonders of creation? Are we
just the universe caught up in delight,
astonished at its own attentiveness?

Soldier of Distinction

from the WWI diary
of Julius M. Riddle
December 15, 1917

Later in the evening
we had an inspection by Col. May.
As he came thru,
I was standing beside the aisle,
at attention.
He stopped in front of me
and for a moment
I thought he had recognized me
and was going to extend the glad hand.
Instead, he said,
“How long
since you have had a bath?”
I told him,
and he walked on.