Introduction

Some years back, I grew interested haiku. Initially, because these short gems struck me as the perfect match for Twitter—a marriage made in digital heaven, as it were. Besides, how hard could it be to write a seventeen-syllable poem.

As I normally do when my interest alights on something, I read several books on the subject (that this time included Higginson and Harter’s wonderful The Haiku Handbook) and from there proceeded to immerse myself in several well-known haiku masters, such as Bashō, Buson, Issa, Shiki, et al.

Meanwhile, I began trying my hand at these things, initially strictly adhering to the five-seven-five syllable format, which, I soon came to find out (from online self-proclaimed haiku gurus), was quite a crude adaptation of that principle seeing that Japanese syllables do not necessarily correspond to English syllables (which are, by expert reckoning, quite unwieldy by comparison). Also, reading a lot of (published and respected) English language haiku I soon realized that both the five-seven-five and the seventeen-syllable “rules” had long since been abandoned by the better (and more creative) haiku poets.

As a result of seeing things in this particular light, I soon began taking liberties with the five-seven-five rule but for some odd reason the seventeen-English-syllable statute remained on the books, refused to leave, had found a home in me—if for no other reason than that my little haikus (which I soon named Wolfkus for an obvious reason) seemed to percolate to the surface fully grown and just about always in a string of seventeen-syllable creations. And when they did not, say they surfaced as an eighteen-syllable Wolfku, or a sixteen-syllable one, well, then I discovered that when I sand-papered the longer ones into seventeen, or added some air into the shorter ones into seventeen: the meaning seemed clearer, more definite—besides, this was a fun exercise (I love language and its many words and their bendable uses).

Struck by something, an image, a feeling, a thought, before long this seventeen-syllable raft came bopping to the surface (having been let go of by some curious and creative, though shy, deep-sea Wolfku deity). During a morning’s walk by the Pacific, three or four or sometimes five of these Wolfkus might surface, and it was all I could do to remember them all until I returned home to a pen or a keyboard.

Sometimes I did forget them, memory like a sieve these days.

Before not so long, many of these Wolfkus arrived more as aphorisms than true haikus, as little containers of distilled perhaps philosophical reflection. Well, since many of them struck me (the creator, or recipient might be a better word) as both unique and insightful, who was I to call a halt to this quite enjoyable, if curious, phenomenon.

A phenomenon that still flourishes and seems to have no intention to do otherwise, for I rarely return from an hour’s walk without some seventeen-syllable epigram or other.

Seeing, though, that the earth from which these Wolfkus sprung (and still spring) was replete with impressions and sometimes micro-epiphanies, I thought that perhaps it was time to revisit these Wolfkus and examine this fertile soil for what else it might hold. What, indeed, I wondered, gave birth to them, what carried them from darkness to light? And where did they, in turn, carry me? This is what gave birth to the idea of Wolfku Musings—a collection of Wolfkus and the soil that sprung them.

I have published Wolfku Musings, Book One, and will soon publish Book Two, to be followed by Three… Four… et cetera.

Meanwhile, I realized that I really should assemble a sort of archive of those Wolfkus that I have posted online, by now running into the several hundred, and also publish future Wolfkus Archives as I write and post them.

Lately, say over the last many months, I’ve begun to give my Wolfkus titles as well, just for, well, I don’t know why really, just felt right. As I now compile these Wolfkus from oldest to newest, I’ve also added titled to those who never had one.

All this said, here then, the fourth installment.

Wolfkus 301 - 400

— 301 —

President

Trump is a scary
  reflection
on the mental health
  of our country


— 302 —

Life

Can there be
a reason for living
other than
  finding a way out?


— 303 —

Seasons

a cold summer fog
grasses and flowers
hunker down, thinking:
  autumn


— 304 —

Words

Words and their
  glorious meanings
bridge the deepest
  chasms
  between us


— 305 —

Adverbs

Were there no need
  for adverbs
There would be
  no adverbs
Obviously


— 306 —

Breath

If the universe
  is expanding
that means it is still
  breathing in


— 307 —

Fog

fog on skin
cold face
happy heart


— 308 —

Love

a gray man
a gray woman
they lean on each other
  weak legs
  strong love


— 309 —

Layers

Inside bodies
  Inside cages
Clung by gravity
  to this Prison


— 310 —

Layers

Inside body
  Inside mind
Clung by Sister
  Gravity
  to this Earth


— 311 —

Freedom

Pale sun
Seals bark
Gulls glide
Waves break
Uncaged


— 312 —

Sex

An asexual alien
  on sex:
What on Earth
  are they doing?


— 313 —

Sizes

You are a trillion
  light years tall
The universe
  the mote
  in your eye


— 314 —

Mobs

The mob will always shout
  the finer voices down*
Still, they persevere

*Nailing Jesus to a cross
is as good an example
as any


— 315 —

Weather

sun-drunk winds
  through fogless air
trees and grasses
  (and their shadows)
waving


— 316 —

Suffering

Our minds
  so incredibly beautiful
Why then
  all this suffering?


— 317 —

Spit

You clear your throat
  and spit
Is that you in the air?
  It used to be you


— 318 —

Ambush

When the mind rises
  red like blood
    like roses
Sex is about to
  pounce


— 319 —

Truth

This much I know:
the ultimate answer
  is knowable
  and simple


— 320 —

Beauty

A face: bone, flesh
blood, skin, teeth
eyes, mascara
beautiful, yes
  but why?


— 321 —

Osprey

The osprey soaring
  mathematically
gliding Pythagoras
  proud


— 322 —

Stars

one sun sets
a trillion suns
appear


— 323 —

Art

The arts—
rearranging deck chairs
when we should be
  learning how to fly


— 324 —

Heart

My heart banged
against my ribcage
Can I come out
Can I come out


— 325 —

Thoughts

Even though you think it
  and think it often
Does not mean it is true


— 326 —

Big Bang

A big bang occurs =
A scientific miracle
  happens


— 327 —

The Present

This breath is
all the time there is
has ever been
or ever will be


— 328 —

Prison

Music and Art
Story and Song
Sex and Food
Sumptuous Prison Walls


— 329 —

Aging

At my age
little pains they
  come and go
sometimes, though
  they call me home


— 330 —

Webs

Spiders hate dew
it betrays their only
way to make a
  living/killing:
Webs


— 331 —

Self

We define ourselves
  constantly—
an eternally
  moving target


— 332 —

Self

We define ourselves
  constantly—
our forever shifting
  persona


— 333 —

Self

We define ourselves
  constantly—
reifying what
  does not exit


— 334 —

Advice

A heartfelt word
  to friend and foe
Beware of crowds
  and where they go


— 335 —

Hell

Here’s a thought:
Take someone who
  truly loves pain
Is our Hell his
  Heaven?


— 336 —

Fall

I love autumn
  —mist
  —rain
Scents linger
  at ground level
and intoxicate me


— 337 —

Sizes

Between the infinitely large
and the infinitely small
is there truly
  a difference?


— 338 —

Nonsense

These syllables
are meaningless
and so are these
I must confess


— 339 —

The Pacific

the long, lazy swell
finds the crescent sands
with a wide, white
  frothy smile


— 340 —

Layers

gray clouds rupture
  to reveal
white clouds hovering
  above
in sun dance


— 341 —

Death

I think Death
is probably the best
  there is
at keeping a secret


— 342 —

Counting

If a finite Universe
  with patience
We can count all
  its atoms


— 343 —

Snails

After the rain
  many snails head
  into traffic
I turn them around


— 344 —

Rain

It rained cats and dogs
  last night
My front lawn’s a
  cat-infested kennel


— 345 —

Love

If you despise
  everyone but yourself
You truly
  despise yourself

:

If you love
  everyone but yourself
Truly, you are nothing
  but love


— 346 —

Intuition

Intuition sneaks up
  on you
  on wordless feet
and whispers: alive


— 347 —

Skins

I shed my body
  like a cobra his skin
this, my friends
  is true joy


— 348 —

Creation

Earth is a classic case
  of God hadn’t a clue
the gun was loaded


— 349 —

Morals

A prerequisite
to stoking moral
  outrage
is morals to stoke


— 350 —

Waves

A restless Pacific
  this morning—
Raging, frothing
  pounding the sand


— 351 —

Miracle

Deep within the very
  heart of science
shines the big-bang
  miracle


— 352 —

Birds

Two birds on a wire
She’s giving him
  an earful
He blinks a lot


— 353 —

Truth

An angel whispered:
you find the truth
  by looking
not by looking for


— 354 —

Emptiness

Before emptiness
  sundered into
lo these many selves
  there was peace


— 355 —

Aliens

These space ships
  do not contain aliens
they are, in fact
  aliens


— 356 —

Desire

After Tsongkhapa:

Those who chase
  pleasures
are insufficiently
  disillusioned
with them


— 357 —

Chemistry

While true love
  is spiritual
Infatuation
  is chemical


— 358 —

Curtains

There’s a lot more
  going on
in the soul’s engine room
  than meets the eye


— 359 —

Thoughts

We can either attempt
  to align
  a trillion thoughts
or let them go


— 360 —

Resilience

We’re all right as long as
our getting-back-ups
equal our falling-downs


— 361 —

Dance

This flimsy fabric
  of existence
One summer
  I danced right
  through it


— 362 —

Aging

Autumn clouds move in
Knees ache, gums bleed
years hurry—
Life as distraction


— 363 —

Toxins

Letting the Self evaporate
  Finally
free of all these toxins


— 364 —

Hate

Why does demagoguery
always find its sad
Trumpesque audience


— 365 —

Selves

Down there:
  There is you, me,
  them, others
Up here;
  There is only up here


— 366 —

PTSD

PTSD a new definition:
Post Trumpal Stress
  Disorder


— 367 —

Birth

Had the universe not
grown faster than light
there would be
no darkness


— 368 —

Hate

Why does demagoguery
find such resonances
in human beings


— 369 —

Past

Our memories prove
  our past
But, don’t forget
they’re all
  in the present


— 370 —

Nirvana

If the Cubs
  can win the World Series
Surely,
  I can reach Nirvana


— 371 —

Opinions

Mahayana—
Hinayana—
Opinions
Opinions
Opinions


— 372 —

Despots

The last in a grim
dark line:
  Hitler, Stalin,
  Mao Tse-tung
Donald Trump


— 373 —

Anapanasati

The breath—
  one fine light
  midst many others
  that one by one
expire


— 374 —

Relief

The joy I find
  in sitting-peace
  feels more like relief
than happiness


— 375 —

Election

Spoke to the sea
  this morning—
it cared nothing
 about the election


— 376 —

Viewpoints

The human take on
  protons, electrons:
How can something
  be that small?

The Universe’s take on
  us humans:
How can something
  be that small?


— 377 —

Tolstoy

Tolstoy was wrong—
Happy families are
  all unlike
Sad ones alike


— 378 —

Weight Loss

For every pound
  you lose
Billions of innocent cells
  meet their maker


— 379 —

Beauty

I find her face
  very beautiful—
but by what
  hidden ideal?


— 380 —

Silence

Nowadays, I find
  my silence
far more eloquent
  than any word


— 381 —

Opinions

Truth subdued
  and splintered
by opinions, opinions
  more opinions


— 382 —

Mind

I am a kaleidoscope
  of brightly colored
  broken memories

shaken this way
  one day—
that way the next


— 383 —

Samsara

I am not trying
  to build a life—
I am trying
  to exit one


— 384 —

Love vs Freedom

no matter
  what you might think
love is a poor
  substitute
for freedom


— 385 —

Puppets

Assumption:
  We are all puppets
Question:
  Who or What
  is pulling strings


— 386 —

Empathy

Empathy expands our
scope of perception—
we literally grow


— 387 —

Self

The Self is nothing more
than an I’ed
  circumscribed
scope of perception


— 388 —

Bodies

We’re so busy
  keeping our bodies
    alive—
nothing but a
  smokescreen


— 389 —

Breath

My breath is of both
  body and of mind—
  in and out:
a tactile light


— 390 —

Samsara

Even the sweetest
  touch of Samsara
is nothing but a
  Nightmare


— 391 —

Rain

After-the-rain tarmac:
  a gray, watery mirror
—I walk on clouds


— 392 —

Cows

Few things appear
  quite as unperturbed
as a cow grazing
  in the rain


— 393 —

Aging

The girlness of girl
and boyness of boy
fade to humanness
  with age


— 394 —

Words

beyond the word
beyond the meaning
  of the word
lies true awareness


— 395 —

Words

beyond the word
beyond the meaning
  of the word
lies experience


— 396 —

Fiction

I read fiction
  to reignite
  the light of sanity
in my world


— 397 —

Nirvana

Nirvana is easily
  explained—
It is simply
  no more nightmare


— 398 —

Shadows

The shadow cast
  by feather
and that cast
  by lead
are equally dark

The shadow cast
  by sorrow
is darker than
  that cast
by brooding trees

The shadow cast
  by sex
is darker by far
 than that cast
by sorrow

The shadow cast
  by lives and lives
  eternal
the darkest
  of them all
(a shadow
  darker still)


— 399 —

Bubbles

We are like rain bubbles
  on the water
now you see me
  now you don’t


— 400 —

Wealth

At eighteen I had
  thirty vinyls
  that I loved
and nearly wore out

Today I have
  three thousand CDs
  that I like—
The boy was richer


— End —