Introduction

Some years back, I grew interested haiku. Initially, because these short gems struck me as the perfect match for Twitter—a marriage made in digital heaven, as it were. Besides, how hard could it be to write a seventeen-syllable poem.

As I normally do when my interest alights on something, I read several books on the subject (that this time included Higginson and Harter’s wonderful The Haiku Handbook) and from there proceeded to immerse myself in several well-known haiku masters, such as Bashō, Buson, Issa, Shiki, et al.

Meanwhile, I began trying my hand at these things, initially strictly adhering to the five-seven-five syllable format, which, I soon came to find out (from online self-proclaimed haiku gurus), was quite a crude adaptation of that principle seeing that Japanese syllables do not necessarily correspond to English syllables (which are, by expert reckoning, quite unwieldy by comparison). Also, reading a lot of (published and respected) English language haiku I soon realized that both the five-seven-five and the seventeen-syllable “rules” had long since been abandoned by the better (and more creative) haiku poets.

As a result of seeing things in this particular light, I soon began taking liberties with the five-seven-five rule but for some odd reason the seventeen-English-syllable statute remained on the books, refused to leave, had found a home in me—if for no other reason than that my little haikus (which I soon named Wolfkus for an obvious reason) seemed to percolate to the surface fully grown and just about always in a string of seventeen-syllable creations. And when they did not, say they surfaced as an eighteen-syllable Wolfku, or a sixteen-syllable one, well, then I discovered that when I sand-papered the longer ones into seventeen, or added some air into the shorter ones into seventeen: the meaning seemed clearer, more definite—besides, this was a fun exercise (I love language and its many words and their bendable uses).

Struck by something, an image, a feeling, a thought, before long this seventeen-syllable raft came bopping to the surface (having been let go of by some curious and creative, though shy, deep-sea Wolfku deity). During a morning’s walk by the Pacific, three or four or sometimes five of these Wolfkus might surface, and it was all I could do to remember them all until I returned home to a pen or a keyboard.

Sometimes I did forget them, memory like a sieve these days.

Before not so long, many of these Wolfkus arrived more as aphorisms than true haikus, as little containers of distilled perhaps philosophical reflection. Well, since many of them struck me (the creator, or recipient might be a better word) as both unique and insightful, who was I to call a halt to this quite enjoyable, if curious, phenomenon.

A phenomenon that still flourishes and seems to have no intention to do otherwise, for I rarely return from an hour’s walk without some seventeen-syllable epigram or other.

Seeing, though, that the earth from which these Wolfkus sprung (and still spring) was replete with impressions and sometimes micro-epiphanies, I thought that perhaps it was time to revisit these Wolfkus and examine this fertile soil for what else it might hold. What, indeed, I wondered, gave birth to them, what carried them from darkness to light? And where did they, in turn, carry me? This is what gave birth to the idea of Wolfku Musings—a collection of Wolfkus and the soil that sprung them.

I have published Wolfku Musings, Book One, and will soon publish Book Two, to be followed by Three… Four… et cetera.

Meanwhile, I realized that I really should assemble a sort of archive of those Wolfkus that I have posted online, by now running into the several hundred, and also publish future Wolfkus Archives as I write and post them.

Lately, say over the last many months, I’ve begun to give my Wolfkus titles as well, just for, well, I don’t know why really, just felt right. As I now compile these Wolfkus from oldest to newest, I’ve also added titled to those who never had one.

All this said, here then, the first installment.

Wolfkus 1 - 100

— 1 —

Gates

A wide-open gate
hinges rusted brown with years
Who left it open?


— 2 —

Songs

A song ends too soon
An ear catching up
What was that color?


— 3 —

Falling

An edge, a leaning
Trunk and roots:
  a fierce grasping
Wishing he could fall


— 4 —

Twitter

Tweet, tweet, chirp, tweet, tweet
Tweet, chirp, tweet, tweet goes the bird
So, she knows haiku?


— 5 —

Spring Odors

After the light rain
Released by
  a grateful Earth
My nose so happy


— 6 —

Yes

I saw Chris Squire’s bass
It looked like Jacob’s ladder
Cautioning the sky


— 7 —

Motion

If life is motion
Breathing: the atom and quark
Then everything lives


— 8 —

Fog

One bark, many chirps
The fog is dense this morning
Voices carry well


— 9 —

Fog

The seagull through fog
Silent, airy, wing—wing steps
Fainter, into white


— 10 —

Carnivores

Who made such a world
Where for one being to live,
another must die?


— 11 —

The Rose

The rose: tall and proud
The blade of grass: envious
The sky loves them both


— 12 —

Photoshop

A thousand strange rules
An alternate universe
some call Photoshop


— 13 —

Lies

He lied: a crime worse
than killing—for trusting him
we could die and die


— 14 —

Cars

Shiny metal skin
These animals have round legs
and very bad breath


— 15 —

Morning Evening

My morning poem
Alive from lack of this world
Come evening she’s dead


— 16 —

Control-Z

Too often these days
I don’t apologize, I
look for Control-Z


— 17 —

Light

Waiting for the sun
A thousand lilies, heads bowed
Listening for light


— 18 —

Dumped

Put in a small box
They named it me, wrapped it tight
with soft steel ribbons


— 19 —

Bonsai

The startled haiku
found and nursed
  and pruned and loved
Audible bonsai


— 20 —

Blood

Pages, red pages
History: vast and pregnant
with man killing man


— 21 —

Basics

The two guides I trust
to lead me through this life are
Frugal and Simple


— 22 —

Memory

I tread memory
Soft and treacherous carpet
Falling, falling through


— 23 —

Calm Waters

Young man meets woman
In a sexless equation
Do they still attract?


— 24 —

Bach

The Northern Lights of
Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in
D-Minor: My home


— 25 —

Purpose

What do they live for
the ants, the bees, the spiders?
Small joys and sorrows


— 26 —

Albums

Looking for
  a younger self
I find that I
  am music—
round, black
  plastic


— 27 —

God

Out there, on the rim
Where the ocean falls away
sits God, feet dangling


— 28 —

Choices

The flower, loudly
to the bee: pick me, pick me
So many choices


— 29 —

Language

As the human race tumbles
see it drag language down
with it as well


— 30 —

Poetry

A poem is a story with
galaxies of
spiritual space


— 31 —

Ants

Six-legged purpose
some red
some black
proudly crossing
the path
Look out


— 32 —

True Lies

The beautiful lie
that tells the truth
is the deeper
name of fiction


— 33 —

New Town

Cocooned by moment
falling snow
begin again
dry air, bay window


— 34 —

Birth

First silence
Then sight
Then astonishment
Then voice
Then sound
Then new word


— 35 —

Food

God was done
  creating—
We asked:
  What do we eat?
He said:
  Each other


— 36 —

Flight

Pigeons strain and flap
their mostly inefficient
airborne miracles


— 37 —

Killers

Pelicans fishing
Rising, diving, splash, rising
Glorious killers


— 38 —

Words

Last I saw the Word
was drowning
midst cold and
illiterate spindrift


— 39 —

Leonardo

Each night, the tide dreams
a new sandy masterpiece
for dawn to cherish


— 40 —

Problematic

A Gordian knot
With no Alex to cut it
That is what life is


— 41 —

Beauty

There is no greater
beauty, nor love more profound
than this: mind to mind


— 42 —

Ocean

The long, lazy wave
lands on the crescent shore with
a white, blissful smile


— 43 —

Darkness

A ray of darkness
appeared, shining the dust motes
from angels to bats


— 44 —

Air

My blood is happy
With every lungful of air
So many new friends


— 45 —

Ocean Horses

A thousand horses
Manes of spray and nostrils foam
Hoofs cresting, landing


— 46 —

Forbearance

Her forbearance is
saintly, seeding her heart with
wonderful future


— 47 —

Crows

Two crows side by side
She’s giving him an earful
He’s blinking a lot


— 48 —

Oxygen

The air was so still
I heard the trees exhale their
fine, fresh oxygen


— 49 —

Jarrett

The grand piano
sprinkles beauty in the air
Keith Jarrett’s fingers


— 50 —

Death

Among ships, this name
is only whispered—their word
for death: Gadani


— 51 —

Killers

To eat what has bled
to feed you is a killing
by distant proxy


— 52 —

Island

I am an island
I stand on the ocean floor
obstinate, windswept


— 53 —

Sleepless

Many yesterdays
move about—talking, laughing
I’m trying to sleep


— 54 —

Dragons

A flock of small birds
alights to feed—quaint, thought I
Dragons, thought the ant


— 55 —

Funeral

The word of God in
the summer heat…
He died from a dirty needle


— 56 —

Choreography

The rhythm of meals
The rhyme of routine
the day as dance, as poem


— 57 —

Bad Karma

Killing as hobby
Ending life as stress relief
Hatred bound in skin


— 58 —

Muscle Cars

Testosterone sings
wild, mechanical horses
A sunflower turns


— 59 —

A pair—

What purpose have you
said the sun to the skylark
—To stir the sleeper

What purpose have you
said the skylark to the sun
—To steer the seeker


— 60 —

Suns

One sun sets
A trillion suns
instead


— 61 —

Perspectives

Immeasurably large
Immeasurably small
Man caught in-between


— 62 —

And then…

So still…
A moth hiccups


— 63 —

Stalin

One death a tragedy
A million a statistic
Koba’s a hope


— 64 —

The Body

My body: my car
doors welded shut


— 65 —

Hunter

Hawk wings
absolutely still
Eyes of purest greed


— 66 —

Equanimity

Red sun
Cows unconcerned
Green breakfast


— 67 —

Sparrows

Cow in sparrow cloud
Brown, feathered
bovine thoughts


— 68 —

Poison

Infatuation
Five devious syllables
invading the heart


— 69 —

Emptiness

In an empty room
An absence of many things
A presence of none


— 70 —

Words

The Bible, Quran
Pali Canon, the Vedas:
So, so many words


— 71 —

Alien

In a sea of green:
a smidgeon of yellow
Illegal immigrant


— 72 —

Viewpoint

A fresh-view intake
once wide open
all clogged up now
by ego


— 73 —

Crash Landing

One wing broken
Useless weight
Soft landing unlikely


— 74 —

Identities

One by one
shed identities
dry snake skins
gather at my feet


— 75 —

Strawberries

Warm rain
  Strawberries
too drunk to care
  mold away.
She surveys damage


— 76 —

A Challenge

Rolling off a log
For compulsive balancers
Not an easy task


— 77 —

Blood

Sated Earth, you’ve had
your fill of lives and lives and
lives—insatiable


— 78 —

Right View

Non-self observing
the self: creeks, rivers, chasms
Dark scales fall away


— 79 —

Faith

God may not always
  answer your prayer
for He might be busy
  elsewhere


— 80 —

Rage

In stillness a thought
arises—weary, unfed
An enraged monkey


— 81 —

Dhammapada

I think I am
Therefore, I am
René Descartes
as Buddhist convert


— 82 —

Glue

This mortal fusion
of the spirit with the flesh
Superglue—buckets


— 83 —

Wind

Strong wind
to young caterpillar—
Sorry, Kid
It’s nothing personal


— 84 —

Self

Defining ourselves
by likes, by views, by dislikes
It’s a full-time job


— 85 —

Sleep

Sunset sees him stir
This furtive and ruthless
slayer of Awake: Sleep


— 86 —

Ego

Threaten the ego
with extinction and it will
think you to death


— 87 —

Translator

The ear hears the eye
The eye sees the ear
The heart translates


— 88 —

Escapes

A dungeon
walls a mile thick
Easier to escape
than sex… than pride


— 89 —

Girlfriend

Farther away than away
and longer
Gone to Death now
I miss her


— 90 —

New View

That fish, high in the air
in the osprey’s beak
startled by scenery


— 91 —

Glider

Silent through the air
The hawk is made for gliding
Drops of rain agree


— 92 —

Wishes

Lives rooted yearn to roam
Lives roaming yearn to stay
Ah, the greener grass


— 93 —

Logic

Sex was introduced
when we would not procreate
without inducement


— 94 —

Mystery

Why are we born
so much dumber
than when we died—
hours earlier


— 95 —

Memories

The September wind
stern, with the promise of snow
I am twelve again


— 96 —

Cataracts

This long and winding
country lane of memories
foreshortened by fog


— 97 —

Mystery

If we can know
the highest truth
Why would we
Ever… let up?


— 98 —

Anomaly

After the warm autumn rain
The gullible landscape
fooled into green


— 99 —

Moped

Ice on the puddles
No snow—engine well-tuned
Life lived to teen fullest


— 100 —

Fog Bow

Two golden feet
a heavenly arch apart
Unmoved?
Not an option


— End —