Five Haiku


Cool mist lagoon
Traipsing stone and flower bud
Daffodil laughter

Length of fingertips
I could reach out and touch God
If I wanted heaven

I would just stop here
Press lips against cheek, drip down
Sweat leaving outline

Connecting the dots
Past to present to pleasure
Leaving me misty

Look, we missed lagoon
Exchanging telepathic
Did we create it?

In essence, it’s ours
Lost hearts promise innocence
Let’s waste some more time

EJZ 08.13.2015

The Player’s Plight

Enter Stage Right:

Medicine Man brings miracle –
Prescription for performing –
The antidote for agony
from pharmacy of philosophy
is firm foundation,
and benefit
of the doubt is a powerful drug –
it can knock you out for years
as long as you keep using it.

Stage set with scene of full bed,
pillow at each side,
as if made for two;
but she read the script,
she knows each night of this play is spent alone –
she knows the plot twist called loneliness,
and she remembers when that room was furnished with fantasy
and she wasn’t alone.

A body lay there, sleeping,
awakened by memories of the script she wrote –
he must have read it wrong.

She had learned to be an actress
who only knew her role
in a script she didn’t write
and every single benefit of every single doubt
was given to the unseen,
shaking hand of the playwright
who seemed to change in shape and form and meaning
the longer she kept using it.

So she thought, maybe,
maybe if she said it this way
or maybe,
maybe if she smiled that way,
the director wouldn’t macerate her makeup
with crude, chastising, cruelties,
vaguely very real threats,
a gun to her head,
“Do it BETTER,”
which really meant, do it “MY WAY”,
which seemed to change in shape and form and meaning
the longer he kept using her.

the director has nothing without the actress.
The actress can just find another script
or write her own.

So maybe,
she didn’t want to be an actress anymore.

what happens when actress tries to become director is
she gets fired
or maybe,
she walks away,
or runs,
by one who can play “quiet” better.

Either way.

Maybe she read the script wrong
or maybe –
bad script.

Either way.

Maybe I don’t want to be an actress anymore.
I want to stop pretending this wasn’t about me in the first place.

The bed looks pretty all nice and made
with plethora of pillows
and lace overlays,
daffodils dallying on duvet cover
which everybody knows is just for show
but doesn’t it look nice?
Makes it look like home
which, of course,
is where the heart is.

But last time I checked
I took my heart with me
and lay it down to sleep,
buried in my chest
under covers,
a blanket worn, but present,
a gift from miracle maker –
Medicine Man,
lying in firm foundation,
as I turn to see
full space,

and I miss
something –
No, not you,
I just
you were something worth missing.

EJZ 07.05.2015

Writer’s Block Saga

I have writer’s block.
Writing this will go nowhere.
I have writer’s block.

For the longest time,
if I told you I had the hiccups they would go away.

Truth-telling is powerful if someone is there to listen;
if not it sort of just shakes you up inside.

To hold yourself accountable for what keeps you up at night
is a step toward a relationship with God.

My point is,
I don’t have writer’s block anymore.

EJZ 06.11-12.2015

On Serenity

You asked me how to describe this scene,
twinkling candlelight salted sea
we found later on
skin on skin,
harmonic floating
was just as serene as the moon,
blue and full
(not up for debate this time).

How often does this happen?
Two souls meet –
serendipity –
and the moon stays full for nights on endless end?
You told me,
“The moon is always full –
we just don’t always
see it that way”.

So what does that mean for our souls?
Are they tandem swimming
but we don’t always feel them
until we see it happen and
when we do, is it just
serene as the moon
because now we remember what full means?

EJZ 08.04.2015


Blame me.

Blame poet.

Blame words. Blame truth. Blame lies. Blame
didn’t know better. Blame knew better. Blame yesterday. Blame tomorrow. Blame time. Blame early. Blame late. Blame traffic. Blame weather. Blame sun. Blame rain. Blame hot. Blame cold. Blame sick. Blame tired. Blame
sick and tired. Blame addict. Blame addiction. Blame drug. Blame rap. Blame disco. Blame hippies. Blame war. Blame government. Blame democracy. Blame anarchy. Blame dictator. Blame Patriarchy. Blame Matriarchy. Blame mother. Blame father. Blame Daddy Issues. Blame unavailability. Blame abuse. Blame abuser. Blame victim. Blame rape. Blame no. Blame yes. Blame conversation. Blame relationship. Blame him. Blame her. Blame lack of communication. Blame too close. Blame too soon. Blame too hard. Blame too fast. Blame too long. Blame too short. Blame sex.
Blame transparency. Blame honesty. Blame pride. Blame envy. Blame greed. Blame money. Blame money-makers. Blame money-takers. Blame corporations. Blame welfare. Blame Liberals. Blame Republicans. Blame Glenn Beck. Blame politicians. Blame politics. Blame institutions. Blame bureaucracy. Blame America. Blame treason. Blame reason. Blame faith. Blame religion. Blame that religion. Blame no that religion. Blame the wrong religion. Blame my religion. Blame your religion. Blame organized religion. Blame
organized chaos. Blame God. Blame Muslims. Blame Jews. Blame Jesus. Blame Jews for Jesus. Blame Christians. Blame Atheists.

Blame different.

Blame black. Blame white. Blame blue. Blame red. Blame green. Blame gray. Blame fine print. Blame never said. Blame I told you so. Blame everything. Blame “To everything turn, turn, turn.” Blame excuses. Blame this time. Blame last time. Blame every time. Blame yourself.

Blame blame.
Blame blame.
Blame blame.
Blame blame.
Blame blame.

Blame – I’ve written blame so many times it doesn’t even look like a word anymore.
Blame – if only overuse wore out the practice.

EJZ 09.16.2015

Between Now and Waiting

My creative muse and dear friend, Laura Farrell, snapped this photo. She sent it to me and inspired this poem.


Between Now and Waiting
Speak softly now, for the city sleeps
and soon it will be sunrise
where first drop of morning dew collects
on sparse-laid grass across your feet
and sails across the riverbed
to remind of night-touched secrets whispered over bridge-path.

Believe in our silence
for it keeps their souls asleep.

The sky blushes at our blinking eyes
as life bustles through our veins;

Wakes to find us wondering,
longing for the hour of emerging,
that unbroken time between 3 AM and daybreak,
just before the first stroke of red paints blue,
where our rooftops can sing
and long arms intertwine
over smoky river sighs

Speak softly now, for the city sleeps –
I’ll leave my light on for you.

EJZ 07.16.2015