HAIKU DIARY and sample from POEMS FOR YOU

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2020 HAIKU DIARY week nine
 
(Sun./Feb. 23)
Prayer journal page turns
to a new week of thanks
and earnest requests.
 
(Mon./Feb. 24)
China place settings…
My mother would have loved this
ladies luncheon day.
 
(Tues./Feb. 25)
Meet old friends by chance
at the VA in Portland…
Ah! Same eyes, same smile.
 
(Wed./Feb. 26)
Stand on the green line…
Wrong way! Turn ‘round for photo.
Still get my license.
 
(Thurs./Feb. 27)
Costco motor oil
on sale…so…we have enough
for the next decade.
 
(Fri./Feb. 28)
Spend no cash today.
Oh, but I think I need this.
Online ordering.
 
(Sat./Feb. 29)
Here’s the extra day!
The number doesn’t matter.
It’s still Saturday.

 

Who Are You?
 
Today the subject arises again,
persistent and awkward.
 
Sitting at my desk, I see
someone’s wrinkled hands
at the computer, typing,
typing words for me.
 
In the mirror, I see
a chin and jowls not mine,
a high forehead creased,
undereye sagging crescents.
 
I stop there, not wanting
to look deeper
into the mystery playing out.
Who are you?
 
Of course, I know the answer.
I hear my mother laughing
even though she’s been gone
these many years.
 
But who is that old man
bending to kiss my cheek?
 
--Carolyn Caines

 
Valentine’s Day on the Cowlitz River
 
Spending time with you, if it means a walk?
Sure, I’ll go. It’s not raining. The day is mild
for February. Even the Lily of the Valley is out.
 
We stop at the highway, waiting to cross.
Trucks with smelt poles in back are passing,
when one man motions us across the road.
“Get your 5 pounds?” I shout.
“Oh, yes!” he smiles. Legal catch
for four hours only, and the parking lot is full.
 
We walk the dike where hundreds
are smelt dipping with long-handled nets
for the small, shiny, silvery fish.
Fish and Game officers keep watch,
one agent sampling smelt for health of the run
and biology stuff I didn’t catch.
 
Admiring one young man’s catch,
he offers to give us his smelt.
More fun in the dipping, I guess.
He’ll gladly do it again.
Mike carries home the smelt
that drip through a hole in the plastic bag,
soon becoming dead weight.
 
Though he won’t eat them
because of his childhood memories
of smelt sandwiches his mother made,
I’ve dreamed of a fine mess of smelt.
 
But cutting off the first head
and watching the bright blood drain out
surprised me. I don’t know why.
Gutting the fish of their tiny organs and egg sacs,
I’m thinking about baby smelt. Not good.
 
Ah, but dredging the smelt in egg and flour,
then frying them to a crispy golden brown,
that is a memory. I set a paper towel out
by my plate to line up the fish tails
and attached backbones. The first taste
of crisp, fried skin was momentous.
 
After two smelt, I’m thinking how mushy
the meat is and enjoying mainly the mounting
line-up on the paper towel.
Memories do not taste quite as good
when you try to live them again.
 
--Carolyn Caines
 
© 2-14-2020 (Valentine’s Day on the Cowlitz River)