Haiga

 MERRY CHRISTMAS 

Haibun

Body Language  

 

They speak no English, Grandpa and Grandma. We speak no Italian, my sister and I. Words we understand are limited to a few phrases: *seduto, mangia, stai zitto (sometimes said in a raised voice) vatini, chuida la porta, as we are leaving. But, since we live upstairs, we are back several times a day. More is conveyed with gestures, with warm arms, a warm lap and warm food.

 

first robin—

learning to read the signs

of my new love

 

*sit, eat, be quiet, leave, close the door

Treveni-HaikuKatha 

Haibun

CHRISTMAS EVE  

 

The Feast of the Seven Fishes. My mother serves baccala (salt cod with tomatoes),lemon sole. and fried smelts. These are in the open. I recognize them and eat willingly. The other four are hidden in the pasta. They could be anything found in the ocean. I’ve seen what’s at the fish market spread out on beds of ice. Creatures with claws or tentacles. Creatures hidden in little shell houses. Creatures slithering in a tank. I poke through the strands of spaghetti, looking for suspects, My mother tells me to stop playing with my food and eat. 

 

unsolved mystery

the last page of the book

is missing

Failed Haiku 

 

Haiku

 a bubbly effervescence

in her voice

the stream after rain

Tiny Words

Gembun

 Moonlight and Stars

first date

ending with

a handshake

haikuKATHA

Haiga

 Gean

Haibun

Hector Combattente April 17, 1989-October. 27, 1995

in loving memory

 Sunday Morning With Dad

I'm a young child–five years old, six, seven.  My sister, two years older.  It is mid-winter, high summer, any and all seasons.  We wait with Dad on the corner for the trolley.  My sister and I in our best dresses.  Dad in a suit.

 

We get off in the center of town at the green.  Dad buys peanuts.  Some for us, some for the pigeons.  We chase them.  Dad attracts them.  They land on his hat, his shoulder.  They eat out of his hand.

 

tower bells

pigeons ride

the vibrations

 

Dad is soon joined by other men, other custom tailors for "shop talk."  These other tailors leave their children at home.  A few hours of escape, peace.  Not Dad.  Proud and pleased he is. Our clean faces and healthy bodies.  Our freshly pressed clothes sewn by Mom, our smart coats tailored by his hands. Having married late, at age 45, he likes to show off his young daughters.  Most of the time we oblige, knowing there may be a stop at Clark's Dairy Bar before going home.

 

sun on her face

the little girl sneezes

at the tall stranger

Presence