Haiku poetry

Worms coil together in the morning dew

Alas,
The swooping crow.


Her hair brushed my face,
beneath the late summer sky,
As she falls into my arms.


I watched the moon,
And wondered,
Who else watches it?


The morning comes,
Bringing its dew,
Who can see this connection?


Tucked in a field,
Under an early mist,
A snail hangs under a blade of grass.


Sipping my morning coffee,
A worm struggles to move,
The sun is coming.

Out the window,
I catch a frog,
sitting quietly on a lilly.


Above me sits a tom cat,
His eyes following me,
under the moonlight.


Cleaning out the attic,
Her stale perfume still lingers,
On my late wife's nighty


Two doves fly and nest together,
The crack of thunder,
And one is gone.


Above the clouds,
Sits something,
Totally incomprehensible.


A man sits for fifty years,
And reaches,
The same conclusions.


© 2011 Roberto Nacci All Rights Reserved

The Morning After

The morning after he left for that unknown plain,

From the window top - I see him!

Curled on his garden chair in grace, like a ball,

Bathing under morning’s ray,

Careful not to fall,

Stretching out his hind,

Back straight and strong,

Till standing tall,

Turning his ears,

Upon the sound of breakfast’s call.

But as the day whispers words of growth and green,

Flowering the garden – setting the scene,

The world dances around my shadow long enough,

For his sketch to rise,

And smoke away like puff,

Yet, as I turn to discover my own fate,

When out from under my desk,

Rests his purple cushion in state,

Impressed with yesterday’s paw,

And echo’s of licking lips…

I realize now, that I am no more.

For when I’m thrown next to his little feet,

Where no sun conquers,

And my body with the worms meet,

History pulls ready his hand,

As time locks us out,

Inside his keep,

Oh, inverted we lie,

As future Children bloom in my garden gone,

Spending their green under a cycle of sky,

Running under tree and over stone,

Only to abandon their game,

As mother orders home,

But as tea brings them a much needed rest,

Their little arms and legs flail,

As time calls to get dressed,

Tucked into the sheets,

Awaiting tomorrow’s garden game with a smile so sincere,

How little they know.

That once two best friends,

Lived here.

© 2011 Roberto Nacci All Rights Reserved

The pretender

With everything to fear and nothing to gain,

Life’s a speck of his little game.

Running errands, here and there,

Mechanically in motion, no character nor flare.

Yes but is this all I hear you say?

Ah, now now, wait for May,

Where the summer breezes, and the pigeons squawk…

…Alas, where is that promised ultimate quark?

Indeed, she exposes her tulip, revealing itself

Is that a stark reminder of her hidden wealth?

Ah, but amidst that world so tender, so serene,

That ghastly God hides behind the scene.

His claws of bone and gnashing teeth.

His insults echo from the stones underneath,

He jokes around, letting the young grow up while the old grow down,

Either way he laughs: “the world continues to float while you all drown”.

That shimmer of truth he paints for us to cheer,

All the while we’re locked in his fortress of fear,

The fruit that bore my tender yarn on nigh,

Sits on his shoulder waiting to die.

You’re right, but even though the canary sing a summer day in bright,

That cat licks his lips in delight,

And with her river of time flowing to an end,

Out of a cocoon, a butterfly ascend,

Whoever can brake away from the madness, from his chain of sorrow,

No longer need despair in the wait for the morrow.

Ah! But tis a game he uses us as a piece

All the while sending us out under a short-term lease

So let the moon do our own hoping,

For, perhaps the time is now for us to do the joking.

O, the fruit of my skin fades and peels away

As time passes I have no more of a say.

But underneath his lying cloud is a truth overlooked,

That one day, on the eve of my time, my grave is booked.

© 2011 Roberto Nacci All Rights Reserved

The Postmortem

There she stares amongst the chairs

Her sight so narrow, all too shorter than an arrow

Mind is numb, body cold, no longer lingering and no one to hold

This glare amongst her frozen stare remains expressionless like her hair

The birds chirping, the cat purring but nothing remains for her learning

Lying down and looking up her frail hands centered

And with the footsteps tapping and voices mumbling

Up she’s lifted without tumbling

In for collection out with the result

She died of a hernia and a stroke.

© 2011 Roberto Nacci All Rights Reserved