“The Law of Seersucker” is an interesting post on the Mockingbird blog. It’s subject is the unwritten but much debated rules about when seersucker suits can be worn. For those who hate them, the answer is obvious: Never. For those who do like them in the North, the answer is from Memorial Day to Labor Day, which that post on Mockingbird notes as “a short 101 days!” For Southerners who like them, including me, the season for seersucker is a bit longer from Easter Day to Labor Day.

Needless to say, this oral tradition raises lots of questions. For example, what’s a gentleman to do at Eastertide if he lives in Missouri? Most importantly, does it matter? Since moving to Houston, I’m living in a subtropical climate. Wouldn’t it make sense to wear seersucker here as long as it’s hot? That is, after all, the reason people began wearing clothes made out of this material. I have to confess that it’s tempting to break the rule, exercising my unalienable right to pursue happiness.

So let’s write a haiku about rules — breaking them, mocking them, fearing them, not breaking them, being too scared to color outside the lines, etc. Here’s mine:

What makes me happy?
Seersucker and white bucks, then . . .
Labor Day. Sadness.

Now it’s your turn. The “rules” are simple: Write one verse only, using five syllables in the first line, seven syllables in the second line, and five syllables in the third line.

One of my clergy colleagues in the Episcopal Diocese of Texas is the Rev. Sarah Condon, who is also a contributor to the Mockingbird blog. Last month she posted a reflection there entitled “Summer Vacay: Where Is Mom’s Coffin?” Believe me, it’s worth taking a few minutes to read that little gem about the ritual of summer vacations with the family. As she says at the end of that reflection:

. . . no matter how much we expect out of vacations (or any other sort of escapism for that matter), we are still very much the same people we are at home. We may transport ourselves to some beachy locale, but we will still carry our neuroses right along with us. Family getaways offer this rare opportunity to accept that fact; not only about ourselves, but about those people we love most in this world.

One thing often said about Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying is that there were no villains and no heroes. That claim, in a nutshell, is a family vacation. We pile into a vehicle, take our turns acting like jackwagons, and hopefully, learn to accept one another all over again.

So I think that we should write haiku about summer vacations, which can indeed be occasions of grace. Here’s mine:

On the road again,
both annoyed and annoying —
loved and loving, too.

Now it’s your turn. The rules are simple: Use five syllables in the first line, seven syllables in the second line, and five syllables in the third line.

Earlier this week, a post on the blog of the Acts 8 Moment challenged Episcopalians to write haiku about the Episcopal Church. So this was my contribution:

What makes sense of things:
scripture, tradition, reason,
intertwined with love.

But my favorite response was tweeted by someone in Lexington, Kentucky:

The Body of Christ,
the bread placed between my palms,
broken, just like me.

How would you describe your own church or religious tradition? Try to do that in a short poem with five syllables in the first line, seven syllables in the second line, and five syllables in the third line. Then consider sharing it here as a comment.

Most of the streets in West University Place, like this one near the Rectory, are named after colleges and universities. Needless to say, I love this intersection.

So let’s write haiku about institutions of higher education that have formed us — from the ACC to the Ivy League, and even the School of Hard Knocks, which confers honorary degrees on most of humanity a little too prolifically.

Although real haiku can be flexible about some things, let’s stick with the Willard rules of one stanza only, consisting of five syllables in the first line, seven syllables in the second line, and five syllables in the third line. Here’s mine:

I’m proud to be a
Demon Deacon in the land
of “Hook ’em Horns.” Ouch!

Share yours in the comments. Heck, you don’t even have to use your real name, just your imagination!