Thursday, October 13, 2016


                                                                  THE BATES MOTEL     

It's a rundown Victorian converted into six apartments. Our daughter has a one bedroom flat on the second floor. The stairs wobble and creak. The oak banister, grimy and sticky, is loose. Hallway paint is peeled away exposing bare plaster. The dim ceiling light is out half the time. The Bates Motel our son calls it.
Stepping into the flat is a step into an earlier time. The walls are a pale yellow, decorated with animal and flower prints. The mahogany mantel is polished to a high gloss. The gray marble fireplace surround gleams with specks of white and blue. The shiny brass fire tools reflect the sun pouring in from the high windows which are hung with lace curtains. Beyond the windows is a balcony with a wrought iron cafĂ© table set and window boxes filled with red geraniums.  The view…the view is of the Hudson River and a Technicolor sunset.
                                                           in Grandma's trunk
                                                   a postcard from the Taj Mahal
                                                           wish you were here

Contemporary Haibun-on-line
Sept. 2016

Saturday, October 8, 2016


Daily Haige

Thursday, September 29, 2016


                                                             SUMMER OF 1944
Daily headlines in the local newspaper:   POLIO.  INFANTILE PARALYSIS.  POLIOMYELITIS.  Whatever it is called, it's talked about in whispers.  Like a dirty story. 
 Beaches, parks, movie houses, all remain open.  Hardly anyone goes. It's in the air; on the benches; on the toilets. Stay home.  Stay inside.  And so we do
 On one Sunday afternoon my father can take only so much of my sister and me.  He reasons that with most of New Haven staying home, it would be safe to venture out. And there we are, tripping off to the beach on the open-air trolley. Anticipation mixed with disappointment. No one singing or laughing, no large party groups out for a good time. 
The beach at Lighthouse Point is nearly empty. Only four or five families.  And a lonely lifeguard in his tower. We spread our blanket, yards away from anyone else.
"Stay away from them," my father warns.  "Don't play with those children." 
We hadn't played with anyone since Billy O'Hara was rushed to the hospital by ambulance two weeks earlier.  Will we get sick?  Will Billy die? Rumors rolled down our street like a loose ball.  He's dead already.  He's alive. He's paralyzed.  He's in an iron lung.  He's only 10 years old. 
                                                    low tide water line–
                                                    a little girl races
                                                    her shadow
Presence, #29 May 2006

Tuesday, September 27, 2016


                                             house for sale
                                             dried leaves scatter
                                             this way and that
                                             fog in the hollow
                                             the cadence of leaves
                                             dripping on leaves
Simply Haiku
A Hundred Gourds

Saturday, September 24, 2016


                                       EARLY AUTUMN   

A sunny, crisp day.  Here and there a splash of red, a tinge of yellow. In the maple, one thick branch glows golden.  The rest remains green. The coloring on most trees is random, almost quixotic, except for the dogwoods along the fence. They look to be painted by an artist obsessed with symmetry, dark red on the tips of the leaves, dark green towards the stems. Each tree a copy of the others.   

                                          full palette–
                                          holding the brush above
                                          a blank canvas
Nisqually Delta Review summer 2007

Monday, September 12, 2016

Tuesday, August 23, 2016


                                                      BEING ALIVE

 Unrelenting heat. The old man with dazed eyes accepts an ice cream. The first taste sends a flicker of acknowledgement and pleasure. Although I don’t know this man or the woman who is helping him, I feel the sting of tears.

I am afraid to see myself in his role, afraid to think of a life imprisoned by mind and body, afraid to think of needing constant care and attention.

                                                    sweat between my breasts
                                                    the unpleasant awareness
                                                    of being alive

CHO, Oct. 2013