Independence Day, Part Two: Romantic Blogging Haiku

The funny thing was/
she’d already taken her/
Freedom. He gave naught.

Freedom. He gave Nichts.

Suicide Tendencies: Revolutionary Blogging Haiku

My best friend told me:/
“If I was you, I’d kill me.”/
He doesn’t see joy.

When you’re expected/
to be there, and you vanish,/
people can get hurt.

She stood/
on the verge/
of opening./

Facing the great chasm/
and depths of life,/
she clung to him/
who explained/
everything./

As she leaned forward/
to leap/
into the abyss,/
hoping a net would appear,/
feeling secure/
that he would not let her/
fall,/
he took a phone call./

So she, feeling spurned,/
turned/
and ran,/
again,/
back to her safe place,/
and put back on her bland face,/
and hid.

I’ll get my pom-poms/
and do a loud cheer for you./
Will it make you smile?

A dream daughter’s “Yes”./
Your son’s request brings flooding:/
You weep tears of joy.

OR
When your dream daughter/
says yes to your son, you can’t /
help but cry for joy.

When she doesn’t look,/
I know that means she’s “busy”,/
or she doesn’t care.

Don’t expose yourself./
Open your butterfly heart:/
They’ll rip off your wings.

I remember once/
thinking I knew something harsh./
I only felt pain.

As youths,
we would laugh
and loudly whisper,
(when we thought
they couldn’t hear),
about physical oddities:

Mr. M’s errant
and grey
eyebrow hairs.

Mr. C’s gut
that stuck
out so much
you could balance
a martini glass
on it.

Uncle B’s bright white,
bra-less moobs that he showed,
shirtless,
in the summer sun.

Mr. B’s stick legs,
covered to mid-calf with
white socks that matched
his skin.

Mr. P’s back hairs
(we wondered if Mrs. P
brushed or combed them).

Mr. E’s chest hairs,
curling white against his
tan and leathered skin.

They are all dead.

Now I hear,
again,
youthful whispers
and laughs
from behind
my back.