Issue VI

     This month, Haiku Sun is proud to feature, the very talented, Christopher Bock with his take on Jack Kerouac's American Haiku. Please enjoy Christopher's informative article as well as some of his very own 'American Haiku'. And, as always, thank you for stopping by Haiku Sun!

Erin Harte, editor of Haiku Sun

***

Click here to read Christopher Bock's informative article on Jack Kerouac's 'American Haikus'

***

An ink blotter sun

streaks the Ghaziabad sky.

Summer. A rain quail.

New York in the rain,

         that night we took the cross-town

toward you & Brooklyn.

A dog chasing

a butterfly before dusk.

A dog, a butterfly.

Mist from White Mountain.

On the path a slippery mouse,

               my empty hands.

***

Found Haiku

Snow is six feet deep;

Ribbons of Heaven’s white gold

Suffocate us all—

                                                            I want to take her

by the fence; smoke, midnight,

“Mi Gloria Angela”—

  Dismal rainy night,

sleep sweet sleep of white angels.

Root of mystery—

                                                                          I can fall to ground

face first and die that way.

French Symbolist poetry.

She’s high with her sweet

thighs in the middle of right now,

rain crashing outside—

                                                                                    I’ll go light candles.

The Madonna, dope, Mozart.

A movie by God—

  ***

Landscape; Field Series

iv. Almost Always: April

A hint of summer

begins the scatter of snow.

Before the next breath

blooms of new chrysanthemum

will litter our white trellis.

ix. September: Music

Our cat stares acute

into the black gaping mouth

of the garbage can.

He sniffs out old orange peels,

crinkles of discarded poems.

  ***

American Haiku

2 freckled frogs croaking

like me—

Summer is a fly

with broken

wings

December moon:

a broken egg

yoke

Bitten by

A gnat

The cold black ground—

my bed tonight.

Streaking the black tunnel:

the #3 train.

Brooklyn bound.

A fat brown moth

flees the swinging door.

***

Pictures in an Exhibition

A warbler halves

the navel orange sun, I

take two shallow breaths—

Nearby Wooden Pond

a crane cranes its fiery neck.

A violet takes root—

I am Cold Mountain and

as such neglect the sun.

In the pond, a koi—

The chill of Winter

Rattles bones long after death—

A dormant magpie.

In my youth I thought

The sky was convoluted.

Then I became God—

I am the absence

of the leaves—dead branches,

who once was the Moon.

He said: “desire

is your death”. The waning

face of the crescent moon—

The dead count their bones,

forget their ligaments

and spit out white roses—

I opened my veins

toward  blistering sun.

Awoken by a robin—

***

Montauk, Autumn.

// Gentle waves caress

granite walls.

We wait, our legs

draped warily over

the ledge; azure spray 

waltzes spiteful

     Christopher Bock was born in Southampton ,NY in 1980.  He has attended the Berklee College of Music, State University of New York at Geneseo College, as well as,  Stony Brook University ,where he is currently completing his B.A. in English Literature.  He is an editor of the Stony Brook Review and Tk-421 Magazine.  Christopher has also been a staff writer at FrigidEmber.com since 1998.   

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