Eric A. Lohman

Eric A. Lohman lives in Powder Springs, GA. He is a psychiatric social worker, composer, avid cyclist and poet. He works in the emergency department of a large urban medical center, evaluating and assisting the homeless, the chemically dependent and the chronically mentally ill. Much of his poetry reflects his response to and efforts to cope with that reality. He also composes music for orchestra as well as smaller ensembles and solo performance, toward similar ends. He has been active in performing and written arts for 35 years and holds a bachelor’s degree in musical theory and composition from Jacksonville University, Jacksonville, FL.

shinrin yoku—
my mountain bike
enfolds an aspen

Prune Juice March, 2021 #33

blocking carefully
the dancer turns away
from her therapist

Prune Juice March, 2021 #33

spa getaway —
the fix on our marriage
only skin deep

Prune Juice March, 2021 #33

a love supreme—
the long wailing blow
of the coal train

Last Train Home Anthology

straight no chaser—
his loneliness
after divorce

Haiku In Action - Nick Virgilio Writers’ House
Week of Feb25-Mar2

summer winds—
I breathe deeply
into my mask

Haiku In Action - Nick Virgilio Writers’ House
Week of June 1-7

melting the little girl’s ice cream Hiroshima Day

Haiku In Action - Nick Virgilio Writers’ House
Week of Oct 12-18

harvest gathering —
mom passes the turkey
past grandpa’s empty chair

Haiku In Action - Nick Virgilio Writers’ House
Week of Nov. 15-22

to know the ogre
from the pistachio lover —
dad’s eulogy

Failed Haiku May ’21

moment of silence —
the dog’s new toy
loses its squeaker

Failed Haiku May ’21

winter mountain —
my skis slide down
beside me

Failed Haiku May ’21

the dog
lets me out —
quarantine

Failed Haiku May ’21

betting everything
on next year —
helicopter seeds

Failed Haiku May ’21

twelve hour shift —
surfing the wave
of dread

Failed Haiku May ’21

spring planting—
dreams that didn’t survive
the winter

Modern Haiku 52:2

orion’s belt stars —
though trillions of miles apart
they still hold his pants

Tricycle - Buddhist Journal, June’21 contest HM

reading of the will—
I get my father’s
sense of humor

Heron’s Nest Sept.’21

daddy, is that
where all the clouds come from?
power plant towers

Trash Panda — Winter 2021

pumpkin blossoms
great things
to come

Trash Panda — Winter 2021

violets
as a birthday gift —
her new bruises

Akitsu Quarterly: Spring 2022

morning after —
the orb spinner’s web
hangs limp

Akitsu Quarterly: Spring 2022

five beheaded cinderellas after Christmas sale

Failed Haiku #37 January, 2019

country dark...
the stars appear
to twangle

Failed Haiku #36 December, 2018

even the stars have losers brown dwarf

Failed Haiku #36 December, 2018

bits of paper blown by the wind white flutterbys

Failed Haiku #36 December, 2018

touch screen -
the eyes of a child
in juvie

Failed Haiku #32 August, 2018

frozen lake -
I hesitate to break the ice
between us

Failed Haiku #32 August, 2018

smell of the barn at dawn
she nuzzles my hair
as I stoop over her shit
the occasional impatient tap
of a hoof
and the first rays through the crack
as I unfasten the latch and begin
to pull the door aside
she is right beside me
then gathering ourselves
all at once, we heave together -
I pulling back,
she surging forward