Household Haiku

Haiku. More of a word puzzle than a poem: one line of five syllables, one of seven, and another of five — 17 syllables and you’re done!

But there’s more to it. First, there should be two distinct images, separated by a turning-point word. And second, there should be a seasonal reference.

So I guess I didn’t write any real haiku yesterday. Several of my quasi-haiku have turning-point words (“no,” “none,” “but”), and “The Mud Room” pretty much sounds like winter, but no poem here follows all the rules.

However, they’re fun, so here they are. One for each room of our house and a bonus haiku about the telephone.

Note: Hitting return in this program double-spaces the lines, so I’ve set them down here with a slash between each line.

B edroom. Loud pulse wakens me. / Padded footfall on wood steps? / No. Cat throwing up.

ashroom. Brush. Toothbrush. Nail brush. / Toilet brush. All useful; none / interchangeable.

M ud room. Food bank for street birds. / Unassuming socks line-dry. / Peaceable kingdom.

G illian’s studio. I used to clear it, / revealing floor to vacuum. / Now I shut the door.

C all display. “To what do I owe / this unrequited pleasure?” / Marketer ends call.

M y study. I think, work, or read / at desk or in papasan / (unless Cat’s in it).

K itchen. Aging leftovers / seek Narnia, but the back / of the fridge is closed.

L iving room. Cardigans reign here. / We curl up, dogs on our laps / and fur in our tea.