Parodies, Homages, Allusions

These poems, surprisingly enough, are all parodies, homages, or allusions to (mostly) well-known poems. Can you identify their progenitors? All poems published in Modern Haiku 38:3, Autumn 2007, except for “mime” (Cicada #20, 6:3, July 1994), “dust” (Woodnotes #13, Summer 1992), “what can happen now?” (Haiku Canada Review 2:2, October 2008), “after the puppet show” (Modern Haiku 44:2, Summer 2013), “spring breeze” (Modern Haiku 46:1, Winter–Spring 2015), and “what computers feel” and “New Years Day” (both published in Frogpond 23:3, Fall 2000 and in Countdown, the 2000 Haiku Poets of Northern California members’ anthology), the second version of “the street-corner preacher” (Skylark 6:1, Summer 2018), “snake” (The Heron’s Nest XXIII:1, March 2021), “asked about the hospital” (Modern Haiku XXIX:2, Summer 1998), “not seeing the green wheat” (Moongarlic #4, May 2015), and “fresh sourdough” (in “Discover Haiku in San Francisco” video, August 2024, with my voice-over, included at the end). See also “14 or 15 Combs.”

                for you going

                for me going

                two urinals                    +

                                a bitter loss—

                                college football players

                                without any necks

                                                hermit crab:

                                                     out of its shell

                                                     out of itself

                                                                dust hovers above the road at sunset

                                                                                the parking lot gate

                                                                                rises

                                                                                falls

                                                                mime

                                                                jumping

                                                                frog

                                                September tide—

                                                how delightful to wade

                                                with Birkenstocks in hand

                                indigo sky—

                                there must be 14 or 15

                                cumulus clouds

                the street-corner preacher

                points the way

                with his Bible

what can happen now?

        in the forest

                a redwood has fallen

                                                                after the puppet show the puppets

                spring breeze—

                the pull of her hand

                as we near the pot store

                                what computers feel,

                                clocks feel, I don’t know—

                                millennium’s end

                                                New Year’s Day—

                                                the computer keeps working

                                                I feel about average

                                                                the street-corner preacher

                                                                points the way

                                                                with his tablet

                                                                                snake

                                                                                       out of its skin

                                                                                       out of itself

                                asked about the hospital

                                the old woman gestures to it

                                with her cigarette

not seeing the green wheat

till that one

red barn                  +

                                fresh sourdough . . .

                                even in San Francisco

                                I long for San Francisco