summer blues
wisteria high in the branches
of a dying tree
Author: Bob Lucky
Bob Lucky lives in Portugal. His work has appeared and is forthcoming in various journals including Modern Haiku, tinywords, Rattle, MacQueen's Quarterly, Presence, The Haibun Journal, and others. He's the author of Ethiopian Time (Red Bird Chapbooks), Conversation Starters in a Language No One Speaks (SurVision Books), My Theology (Cyberwit) and What I Say to You (proletariat.org).
job search the tide takes another sandbar
spitting rain
the sound of noodles
hitting the wok
The Alchemy of Grief
Some of the tears he whittles into fine points. Those are good for gouging out his eyes. Others he distills. At night, blind and drunk, he pretends
Writing is Like Fishing, Which is Like Love
The waves keep coming and going. Cormorants and terns. Too many to make a moment of. A heron steps like a feathered
Alice in Her Twilight Years
We were cleaning out Mom’s house when we found them in the back of a cupboard, two zaftig Barbies covered in cookie crumbs.
In the Beginning
Every word fell to the ground under the weight of meaning. We held each one up to the light. Those words that made sense were like truths to us. The others,
meteor shower
everyone complains
about the moon
my apology
hard pears left
to ripen
Hiking
up to look down at the Blue Nile Falls, the mist rising into the camera's frame
rheumy eyes calculating the price of my guilt
day moon even here I’m somewhere else
Monday Morning Coffee Break
(Addis Ababa, Ethiopia)
A barefoot man with ropes slung over his shoulders and a long-handled axe in his belt scoots up a eucalypt, tearing
tying my shoes
lately the ground
seems so low
friday evening
the last car to board the ferry
in front of me
South Coast, Aqaba
We stand on the shore, a plastic bag of fins, masks and snorkels on the sand between us. A cold wind sends whitecaps scudding over the Red Sea. Without looking at one another,