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While this haiku could be about anything (and it is, in fact, about many different things), I’m posting it now to offer my thanks to more than a few people who have gone to Amazon.com and purchased my book in the past week. I should probably also thank the folks who bought it before.

So thank you, whoever you are.

Your feedback is also appreciated. Please feel free to let me know you bought it, and what you think of it.

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I was reading a couple books about crafting and appreciating haiku — the sort of reading that tends to remind me of two things:

1. why I love reading and writing poetry and haiku
2. why I hate reading books that attempt to define good poetry or haiku

I’ve never bought the idea that you can foster creativity by forcing people into the same old patterns, which is why I’ve always bristled at the conventional wisdom conveyed in such books — as well as teachers who rely too much on these conventions.

Some of the poetry and haiku I’ve enjoyed most would fall “short” of such experts’ proscriptions. Maybe that’s because I evaluate poetry, haiku or any other artful expression on one criterion. It must speak to me in a way that enhances the scope of my understanding.

Simplistic as it may be, that definition works for me. What are your criteria — for haiku, poetry or art in general?

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another one recycled from the book

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we spent the evening
communing with stars that chose
to make themselves known

Last night in bed,
staring into the darkness,
seeing my life flash before me -
a barrage of color, sound, sensation
I hardly recognize today -
the squandered moments rushed back,
markers of each intersection
where my course was set
Then there were others with no signs,
just subtle warnings
of what lay ahead.

And I was the driver,
listening to the music
and tapping rhythm on your thigh,
cresting a hill on the expressway,
seeing the disabled car
half an instant too late.

How is it we so easily
dismiss the peculiarity of the moment,
as if any other
could have taken its place?

Perhaps it’s because
we want to believe,
(as you often said)
every moment,
each opportunity,
is self-orchestrated;
like the universe
is a willing mistress
waiting for our call.

But just before the break of day
as you lay with me,
resting peacefully,
silk hair on my arm,
soft breath on my neck,
I was someplace else,
wondering what I’d done
to have found myself
in a moment like that one.