Saturday, February 18, 2017


                                              RACHMANINOFF PIANO CONCERTO No.2     

There is drama in the opening chords.  The piano alone— six times the same chord, beginning pianissimo, getting louder with each repetition.  Then a sweeping blend of violins and piano.  I listen and forget the arduous task I’m doing, peddling my exercise bike.  The music lifts me beyond  the mundane aspects of daily life.

                                              icy sleet
                                              on the windows—
                                              empty bird feeder

Now an introduction of horns and full orchestra.  The piano, romantic in tone.  A quiet orchestral melody.  Hollywood borrowed the melody for a film years ago.  Everyone of a certain age would know it.

I’m there in the concert hall.  Spotlight on the pianist, his head bent over the keys, fingers flying. The audience is in shadow. All still but for the occasional  cough or sneeze.  Bike exercise completed, I remain listening.  An increased tempo in the third movement.    Passages of piano fireworks, each note quick, clear and sharp.  I’ve listened to this so often I can anticipate each phrase, each note.  Then the full orchestra again, soaring with the melody and finally closing with a strong crescendo.

                                                   with gloved hands
                                                   spilling bird seed—
                                                   sleet down my collar

World Haiku Review, March 2003

Friday, February 10, 2017

Saturday, February 4, 2017


                                                                        soft snow
                                                                        the cold floats down
                                                                        one flake at a time

                                                                        late winter cold
                                                                        long underwear
                                                                        frayed at the cuffs

                                                                        crackling in the air–
                                                                        on a frigid afternoon
                                                                        tea and ginger snaps
A Hundred Gourds
Daily Haiku

Friday, January 27, 2017


                                                                 A DAY IN JANUARY           

Today, I begin to remove the holiday decorations. Some have been part of my holiday celebrations since childhood, ornaments that I inherited when my parents passed away. Others are from my husband’s family. There are paper ornaments made by our children and grandchildren.  Ornaments from places we visited and from friends.

                                                                      bits and baubles
                                                                      wrapping the years
                                                                      in tissue

Haibun Today, December 2015


Monday, January 23, 2017


Daily Haiga

Friday, January 13, 2017

Tanka Sequence

                                                               WHEN DISASTER COMES

                                                            (Hurricane Sandy, October 2012)

                                                                   snug in my home
                                                                   with after dinner coffee–
                                                                   is it luck or fate?
                                                                   that we are here not there
                                                                   with just each other and hope
                                                                    day after day                       
                                                                    the mundane things I do
                                                                    with barely a thought
                                                                    until I remember
                                                                    the speed in which life changes

                                                                    bleak images
                                                                    the fodder of nightmares
                                                                    the truth of now;
                                                                    helplessness prevails
                                                                    hopelessness bores deeper
                                                                     day becomes night
                                                                     and becomes day again
                                                                     with still no answer
                                                                     why some were chosen
                                                                     and others spared

                                                                     from home to market
                                                                     all my wants granted
                                                                     how easy to forget
                                                                     those with neither home nor food
                                                                     and only sky for shelter

                                                                     thanking God
                                                                     for keeping family safe,
                                                                     guilty with relief
                                                                     I accept each day
                                                                     as a slippery gift
Cattails, Jan. 2014

Saturday, January 7, 2017


                                                         this grip of cold
                                                         icy winds from the north
                                                         freezing all they touch
                                                         a time to recollect
                                                         the warmth of you in my life

                                                         the coldest month
                                                         each day a variation
                                                         on the theme of winter
                                                         I sense nuances of change
                                                         both in mind and body

                                                         frigid morning
                                                         my breath leaving traces...
                                                         like memories of loved one
                                                         is the soul just a vapor?