He never asked me/
to buy a long distance bike./
I’ll see him again.

I saw a photo of a Whidbey Island beach, and thought of a friend’s photo on a similar beach.
Whidbey Island Haiku:

There’s a beach photo/
of a fine woman I know./
It’s just as stunning.

I woke up drooling,/
spittle drenching my pillow,/
and remembered you.

I heard and listened/
but never thought that i would end/
up her gay boy friend.

When debating a/
superior intellect/
and wit, I’ll just quit.

It always amazes me
when things happen that I didn’t see.
It’s not only that I’m blindsided,
but I ask myself “How’d I let me be so misguided?”

You think you’ve got things figured out;
You’re predicting flood instead of drought.
People ask you for sincere advice
and you give it to them, and try to be nice.

But then, like bathing in winter’s fickle Chinook wind,
they ignore you and do what they want again.
And you just shrug and watch them play,
and wish them happiness; what more can you say?

Because, in the end, it’s their life they have to live
Despite all the advice you tried to give.

She wrote her wish list/
years past of her man. She mourns/
him not on her list.

Or

Years ago, she wrote her/
man wish list. She now mourns him/
who is not on it.

She who once wagged her /
finger, now embraces me/
and shows her vision.

OR
She who once wagged her /
finger, now embraces me/
with love and vision.

I told her about U,/
of the 1st story we shared,/
back when U/
asked 2b grounded,/
and I surrounded/
U with a warm sea breeze./
U fell asleep./
“She trusted U.”

In an evening of healing, creativity and cleansing (and me making, baking and slightly burning — it had rice flour — a rhubarb crisp) at a new friend’s mountain chalet, I wrote this poem in response to a poem she wrote about my and my burnt rhubarb crisp. Her poem, “Rhubarb Crispier”, is at http://moonlightweb.wordpress.com/2010/05/13/rhubarb-crispier/.
Here is mine (the original had “your words” instead of “her words”:

I’ve stood, 4 years,/
doubting my craft, my mind,/
my soul, My heart./
Old words:/
Criticism still heard,/
still hurts./
Her words/
still the ache./
I’ll print them.