Haiku
Whiskers of the cat,
webbed toes on my swimming dog:
God is in details.
Sinuous shadow,
she moved like hot tears,
clear and bitter.
Tear-damp flush of face,
white cotton so sweetly curved,
bare knees together.
Moonlight on water,
eyes brimming ponds of spring rain:
dark fish in the mind.
Rare albino bats:
Calligraphy on the sky,
sealed by the full moon.
High looping white wings,
faint buzz of fleeing insects:
the killing is quiet.
The soft shush of surf,
conspiratorial fog
cover his return.
Dew on the gray steps.
Snail on the second wet tread,
crushed hard underfoot.
Hanging in the fog,
cascades of dead-still palm fronds
like cold dark fireworks.
Green eys growing gray.
Rosy skin borrows color
from the razor blade.
Black hair, black attire.
Blue eyes shine like Tiffany.
Her light, too, a lamp.
Wrapped up all in black.
Odd color to wrap a toy –
one not yet broken.
Girl’s face shiny damp.
All the sorrow of the world
– yet such bright beauty.
From black sky, black wind.
Black, the windows of the house.
Does wind live within?
Busy blue-eyed girl.
Busy making Hobbit games.
Death waits in Mordor.
Cold stars, moon of ice,
and the silhouette of wings:
night bird seeking prey.
Moonglow on the sand.
Black shoes wear pale glowing scuffs.
Should I blame the moon?
Star, moon, and gunshots:
two deaths here where life began,
the sea and the surf.
Marshals and gunmen.
Shootouts in the western sun.
Vultures always eat.
Where God Goes on Vacation
(Dear Reader: This is the first of two poems deleted with the hope
of preventing you from going insane from too much knowledge and
to guard against the possibility of your head exploding. I myself
have not read this poem, either, though I would very much like to
know where God goes on vacation, because I would assume the
accommodations are magnificent.)
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening with Exploding Heads:
A Tribute in Verse to Robert Frost
(Dear Reader: This is the second of two poems deleted with the hope of
preventing you from grinding up as sags of disgusting emulsified tissue on
the ceiling of your library, or [if you haven’t got a library] on the
ceiling of your model train room, or [if you haven’t got a model train room]
on the ceiling of your neighbor’s model train room, or [if you haven’t got a
neighbor] on the ceiling of the room where your Aunt Bertha keeps her
collections of stuffed alligators and bronzed jackboots.)
About the Author
When he was a senior in college, Dean Koontz won an Atlantic Monthly fiction competition and has been writing ever since. His books are published in 32 languages; worldwide sales are over 215 million copies.
Seven of his novels have risen to number one on The New York Times’ hardcover best-seller list (Lightning, Midnight, Cold Fire, Hideaway, Dragon Tears, Intensity, and Sole Survivor), and eleven of his books have risen to number one in paperback.
The New York Times has called his writing “psychologically complex, masterly and satisfying.” The New Orleans Times-Picayune said Koontz is, “at times lyrical without ever being naive or romantic. [He creates] a grotesque world, much like that of Flannery O’Conner or Walker Percy … scary, worthwhile reading.” Of Cold Fire, a worldwide #1 bestseller, the United Press International said, “an extraordinary piece of fiction. It will be a classic.”
Dean Koontz was born and raised in Pennsylvania. He graduated from Shippensburg State College (now Shippensburg University), and his first job after graduation was in the Appalachian Poverty Program, where he was expected to counsel and tutor underprivileged children on a one-to-one basis. His first day at work, he discovered that the previous occupant of his position had been beaten up by the very kids he’d been trying to help and had landed in the hospital for several weeks. The following year was filled with challenge but also tension, and Koontz was more highly motivated than ever to build a career as a writer.
He wrote nights and weekends, which he continued to do after leaving the poverty program and going to work as an English teacher in a suburban school district outside of Harrisburg. After he had been a year and a half in that position, his wife, Gerda, made him an offer he couldn’t refuse: I’ll support you for five years,” she said, “and if you can’t make it as a writer in that time, you’ll never make it.” By the end of those five years, Gerda had quither job to run the business end of her husband’s writing career.