tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83523952009-08-26T23:25:28.852-05:00articulationpoetry - n. 1: writing that formulates a concentrated imaginative awareness of experience in language chosen and arranged to create a specific emotional response through meaning, sound, and rythmn 2 a: a quality that stirs the imagination b: a quality of spontaneity and gracedthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.comBlogger175125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-16824108330643969272009-07-30T10:20:00.000-05:002009-07-30T10:21:58.813-05:00a few haiku...<a href="http://quotidianjournal.blogspot.com/search/label/*%20haiku">click here to see some <br />recent haiku by me and <br />some Japanese greats</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-1682410833064396927?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-13203889289093977692009-04-30T12:20:00.002-05:002009-04-30T12:25:01.761-05:00Two by my children...Today is National Poem-in-your-Pocket Day so I had my kids write a poem to share with the world. Here they are:<br /><br /><strong>The Owl's Mouth</strong><br /><em>by Ben - age 7</em><br /><br />The owl's mouth is an ugly sight,<br />it really is a scary fright,<br />because I am a mouse myself.<br /><br /><br /><strong>Words</strong><br /><em>by Chris - age 9</em><br /><br />Words can be nice, words can be mean<br />words can be tiny or elephantine.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-1320388928909397769?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-85465871142473031572009-03-23T21:25:00.001-05:002009-03-23T21:25:50.110-05:00The Eternal NowThe tide of breath:<br />Inhale—exhale— <br />A gravitational rhythm…<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-8546587114247303157?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-11430699613711108742009-01-29T07:01:00.001-06:002009-01-29T07:01:00.117-06:00SuspicionStill—<br />The sequoia stand as silent soldiers<br />Sentries of history<br />As if waiting for a foretold arrival<br />Of a dignitary<br /><br />It would seem Someone is coming—<br />Or maybe they are simply trees?<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-1143069961371110874?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-60392917786880446182009-01-24T22:08:00.001-06:002009-01-24T22:08:53.282-06:00It starts as a gas<br />Next forms into a liquid<br />Then solid haiku<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-6039291778688044618?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-58419065820068692882008-12-14T19:38:00.001-06:002008-12-14T19:45:11.860-06:00A Wonder<em>The people who walked in darkness<br />have seen a great light;<br />those who dwell in a land of deep sorrow,<br />on them has light shined.</em><br /><br />Light—<br />proceeding as the dawn:<br />mourning burns away<br />to the fullness of day,<br />darkness done,<br />everlasting noon—<br />God with us, come,<br />has come…<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-5841906582006869288?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-84989188252835023022008-11-12T21:56:00.001-06:002008-11-12T21:56:29.931-06:00The FogThe fog, as depression, has settled in the night—<br />Like the veil of a bride, obscuring beauty, it will be lifted.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-8498918825283502302?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-37718414000003751532008-10-31T13:37:00.001-05:002008-10-31T13:37:42.049-05:00Biker ManHe wears his handlebar mustache like a Harley Davidson<br />He’s fired up—<br />Rolls down the street easy striding yet with thunder in his approach<br />His hair braided like the leather tassels of his vest<br />Painted with tattoos of apocalypse<br />The wheels of his mind spinning… <br />The headlights of his eyes penetrate through the crowd before him<br />Owning the pavement and all the on-looking stares<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-3771841400000375153?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-40597049060048055532008-10-10T08:03:00.000-05:002008-10-10T08:04:19.477-05:00Fall FlightThe birds on the trees<br />have scattered as leaves<br />on the wind they wind through the sky.<br /><br />Yet not to descend<br />as an autumnal blend<br />but will rise to dazzle the eye.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-4059704906004805553?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-36143123863201341572008-09-17T22:05:00.000-05:002008-09-17T22:06:30.592-05:00Hard PressedA stone sits on my desk<br />like an expectation—<br />well-rounded yet dense.<br /><br />I pick it up—<br />weight,<br /><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote>wait.</blockquote></blockquote> </blockquote><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-3614312386320134157?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-26154361769792884142008-09-10T21:58:00.000-05:002008-09-10T21:59:23.164-05:00A HaikuThe moon. A friendly<br />visitor on the doorstep.<br />How they wax and wane.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-2615436176979288414?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-68974402945700758922008-08-29T06:26:00.000-05:002008-08-29T06:26:01.136-05:00The Well of StoriesCome to the well of stories<br />Let your bucket down<br />Drawing up and out its weight<br />Refreshment will be found<br />Thirst is quenched<br />Drink is shared<br />The weary begin to flower<br />For in the garden where toil is known<br />There comes the harvest hour<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-6897440294570075892?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-43105672305196240982008-08-22T06:05:00.000-05:002008-08-22T06:05:00.429-05:00DelayIs the landscape of a marsh—<br />Life collected in a seemingly stagnate pool<br />A slow purification of the run-off of time<br />Bogged down by the moss of life<br />A floating reality, quite uprooted<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-4310567230519624098?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-20510267779469988142008-08-15T06:00:00.000-05:002008-08-15T06:00:00.306-05:00SuitcasesEach contain a folded story<br />Carried on the back<br />Or as a wheeled dolly<br />Loaded with the routine<br />Baggage of life in an attempt<br />To make it lighter—<br />Latched or zipped or buckled<br />Contents hidden from site<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-2051026777946998814?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-46838784174153450452008-08-08T06:52:00.000-05:002008-08-08T06:52:15.060-05:00At The AirportPeople gather—<br />A flock of geese<br />Settled down <br />Into a lake of waiting<br />Then all together <br />They become airborne<br />Riding the instinct <br />Of migration<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-4683878417415345045?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-22624025170913706502008-08-01T07:06:00.002-05:002008-08-01T07:06:01.111-05:00MemoryPinning the butterfly down<br />Means the butterfly will never fly<br />What I need is a net<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-2262402517091370650?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-91329816720866115322008-07-25T07:03:00.002-05:002008-07-25T07:03:01.153-05:00DiagnosisSickness is a larva that burrows into the soil of the body<br />Emerges seventeen years later as a creaking cicada<br />Burdening the mind with its annoyance<br /><br />Sickness is a leech stuck to the skin like cancer<br />A slug loaded and aimed to kill<br /><br />Sickness is the silverfish<br />Elusive and hidden in dark corners<br /><br />Sickness is the fire ant and a bite that stings<br />Resulting in the heat of worry<br /><br />Sickness is a spider softening the drum of the ear<br />Builds her web of confusion back and forth within the mind,<br />Hanging her thread on the worn down rafters of nerves<br /><br />Sickness is the mosquito that hovers out of arms reach<br />As you lay in sleepless heat, itching<br /><br />Sickness is the boll weevil that gets into the cereal of your life<br />And causes you to lose your appetite<br /><br />Sickness is the cockroach,<br />An armored scuttle of fear<br /><br />Sickness is the invasive species of a parasite<br />Who settles into the lake of the heart<br />And contaminates all its tributaries<br /><br />Sickness is the walking stick that is right before your eyes<br />Yet unseen<br /><br />Sickness is the tick that hooks on <br />and will not let go<br /><br />Sickness is the caterpillar’s cocoon<br />And the long waiting of something unknown<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-9132981672086611532?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-51201805746134909952008-07-18T07:02:00.000-05:002008-07-18T07:02:06.667-05:00The Redwoods<span style="font-style:italic;">“Thank God, they cannot cut down the clouds.”<br /> ~ Henry David Thoreau</span><br /><br />Grandfather Time himself stood before me<br />Bearded evergreen and welcoming<br />The priest in this cathedral of history<br />The canopy a choir loft<br />The members of this congregation<br />A fraternal order of longevity<br />These sentinels of ancient creeds<br />Generals against gravity<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-5120180574613490995?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-9053445613821227142008-07-11T07:20:00.000-05:002008-07-11T07:20:01.116-05:00To The RacesToday I will harness distraction<br />Tame her with sugar cubes and apples<br />She will carry this tired body<br />She will rest at night in the stable<br />And she will be named Present Tense<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-905344561382122714?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-21646294749010312022008-07-04T05:44:00.000-05:002008-07-04T05:44:00.354-05:00The American Dreamis a postcard—<br />a false, glossy reality;<br />our location airbrushed across the sky,<br />pressed from a woody pulp,<br />we convince ourselves of the memory<br />held fast to a thin card-stock existence.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-2164629474901031202?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-37057670436581812182008-07-01T07:31:00.000-05:002008-07-01T07:31:07.538-05:00O The Wonder Of A BicycleO the wonder of a bicycle—<br />the closest thing a child has to becoming a robin.<br />Taken off perch with a spring in the step,<br />how the perspective changes,<br />in the zigzag of peddling freedom,<br />as the neighbor boy sees him whisk by<br />and whispers in a covetous tone—<br />“Man, he was flying!”<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-3705767043658181218?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-7320421908423208862008-06-28T08:04:00.000-05:002008-06-28T08:12:05.151-05:00Trash DayThe garbage can sits like an old man<br />at the psychologist’s office,<br />filled till brimming,<br />and that old trash collector of a doctor<br />lifts that man off his curb<br />with a question as defined<br />as Mr. Universe’s forearm;<br />shakes him up a bit<br />and leaves him lying listless—<br />a hollowed and humbled receptacle.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-732042190842320886?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-55555395046893507782008-06-23T23:21:00.000-05:002008-06-23T23:22:45.240-05:00In The DuPage Medical Group Lobbyshe sits in a narrow pew, <br />a lady in waiting,<br />with questions plowed <br />into a furrowed brow,<br />wondering if this sanctuary <br />of sterility will supply a safe haven <br />or the long ordeal of faith.<br />She is ushered into discovery, <br />attendants at her side,<br />the weight of years before her <br />as she stands in the balance,<br />dressed in an open-backed gown<br />and veiled with possibility<br />of being wed to pain—<br />when at the alter, with hand extended,<br />she takes the vow of drawn blood<br />and commits to knowing.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-5555539504689350778?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-38112751328589201562008-06-15T14:01:00.002-05:002008-06-15T14:05:09.433-05:00Dad<em>for Manfred Walter Kürt Haase</em><br /><br />You wear loyalty like the lines you draw—<br />faithful to their intent,<br />long and linear through the years,<br />perspective always in place.<br /><br />Set out on the drafting table of life,<br />one begins to see the blueprint of fatherhood:<br /><br />A structure designed to handle the stress<br />of youthful winds and pressures,<br />rooms drawn for safety and provision,<br />the square footage marked for open dwelling<br />whose ceiling of paternal love is set high,<br />whose foundation is the indelible mark<br />of a graphite line becoming a chalk line<br />becoming the brick and mortar of a family line—<br /><br />Lines carried from your brow to your hands<br />face me in the mirror as I shave <br />and in the topography of my children…<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-3811275132858920156?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8352395.post-77503234231582634582008-04-22T06:49:00.001-05:002008-04-22T06:47:20.451-05:00EconomicsTwo boys come to the pond’s bank<br />ready to make a withdraw,<br />as the currency of childhood is spent quickly<br />and the interest of curiosity never matches<br />the value of water up to the knees —<br />the vault of a turtle between palms.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8352395-7750323423158263458?l=4loves.com%2Fpoetry%2Findex.htm'/></div>dthaasehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03217541399811436408dhaase@gmail.com0