Holy Mary Mo
The Church door was locked from the
inside of his heart
The tree was green the
sky was blue the sea it was
also blue and green
She was not breathing
from excitement or perhaps
knowledge of the end
cutting corners was
not the way he liked to live
his life under the bridge
he was supposed to
be open to all comers
not behind steel bars
political facts
are indeed far from truths or
any truth tellers
he made a bee line
to pour his heart into the
last drinks in the city
this solemn morning
broken by the knowledge she
could not love without
About Michael Housewright
I love to get lost in your words…
Schmee! I am so excited to hear from you
This one:
he was supposed to
be open to all comers
not behind steel bars
Michael, that’s beyond astute. It’s zen wisdom at its essence. Bravo!
Thank you Jennifer. I just call’em like I see’em
A haiku Sunday
conjured from the Blissful Mike
Is well worth the wait
I am starting to expect the Sunday Haiku comment from you
And well you may
Loved these especially the last one.
this solemn morning
broken by the knowledge she
could not love without
thank you for this and your very loyal support Susie!
I guess we no longer have to call for Calgon! Take me away, Michael!
HP, Calgon is way overrated
cutting corners was
not the way he liked to live
his life under the bridge
Okay, one Pulitzer comin’ up…
George, this was my favorite as well and there is of course a story attached. Keep an eye on my Top 25 Italy moments.
You flatter me BTW…and I love it!
Yes you do . . .
Cara, I know you love it. You and your German leg wax
“She was not breathing
from excitement or perhaps
knowledge of the end”
For me . . . this holds a truth I can hardly put words to. Knowledge of the end. Nope. I tried. I cannot explain it, but only say that you squeezed an elephant into a shoe-box with this one.
you are so very encouraging my friend. I will now forever think of you when I see that photo or that Haiku. I swear to you this one came to me as if I was not the one who thought it; I felt merely a typist on some sort of beatific Dictaphone
Ah, knowing this somehow makes it even more special . . . Maybe this was one of those times where you were the vessel in which something true and valid was gifted to another, solely for their benefit. I truly love when this happens.
When I was a boy and growing up in a farming/ranching community of 23,000 people, our church doors were never locked. People could go in a pray at all hours of the day, all days of the week. The world has changed. Every church I’ve visited within the last 30 years or so keeps its doors locked.
I grew up in a church with my grandfathers as ministers. The doors were never locked…now they seem to never be open
What is it about this church that makes me return to look at it?
this is how it goes for me when I write the good stuff..unconscious in many ways.