senryu group

young sweetfish—watching you turn—in a cold bed

red redness—of rape flowers:—a few things i argue about

eating persimmons—for the first time—crumbling of the US

writing of—or using flowers...—still these are not haiku

loneliness of a quiet night—how many verse do i write

in the night breeze crabgrass turns and moves 

moman's shadow left behind—corner of my robe 

life—much like a climbing weed—im a little tired

feeling like a shallow monkey—grudges i hold—turn to mud

wrapping up—another work shift—peaks of night clouds

what path do i walk along—politics are a callous marsh

a good night ahead—unopened bottles of beer 

speaking of revolution—the silent—are highly complicit

juxtapositions—a wave of horror—on Palestinian faces

dark shadows loom over us—having a bland breakfast

red balloon—my son's—eighth birthday a success 

selfishness abounds—waiting patiently—for this shift to end

stepchildren—never quite touched—by the mother's shadow

even the earth—isn't privy—to the Universe's secrets

fleeting life—floating earth—merely shrugs...

writing senryu—ive freshly brushed—my teeth earlier

nondescript day—shopwoman's eyes—in the window

strange morning—rehearsing my apologies—to my dead mother