The Way of Haiku

Do's | Don'ts | Techniques | Haiku

Mark Blasini

across the street
a parrot cries:
a crow's caw.

summer afternoon:
a car passes by,
then another.

on his back,
stretching his limbs --
an old dog.

lightning flashes
against the night sky --
but no sound?

summer night:
music plays
as the baby sleeps.

a quiet campground:
half on carpet, half on stone --
a greyhound sleeps.

autumn sunset:
outside, the flies roam
around a quiet body.

early morning:
dancing on the street
a lively cardinal.

she does not stir,
even as I stare at her --
the sound of sleep.

across the street
an old man falls,
a child laughs.

exactly midnight,
I turn the page --
now, 12:01.

pouring rain:
an adolescent slips
and sobs in pain.


looking back
at old pictures -- 
a familiar smile.

black sun:
beneath, with eyes shut,
men tremble

in my arms
tucking in her head

autumn night:
outside my window,
a cricket song

finally, home:
walking in -
the smell of food

before the day breaks:
the sound of

in my backyard

a summer shower:
but in my backyard -
a rainbow

autumn afternoon:
talking of a floating feather,
she hides a tear

an empty rock,
but here comes -
a yellow butterfly!

as she sleeps:
outside the window

autumn afternoon:
but now, no more leaves
for my yard

muffled talking;
now sounds of sobbing
behind her door

autumn morning:
aren't you cold,
sleeping on my porch?

outside my window,
the trashcan falls

autumn evening:
my cellphone vibrates
but it's not you

on the way home,
purple and orange:
autumn sunrise

cold morning
beneath the blankets
the sound of emptiness

stepping out
shovel in hand
- clear sidewalk

Christmas eve:
and your pumpkin 
still on my porch

dark room
quiet room
- the sound of rain

ten pins:
and fall.

in and out, 
in and out:
baby turtles

How loud above!
up on a telephone pole -
a squirrel eating

Autumn evening:
in the distance -
blood moon