Saturday, June 15, 2019


Dog Days

The very hot days of summer, usually late in July, the time when people suffer and dogs can go crazy. That's the popular belief carried on down through centuries. Actually, the origin goes back to the ancient Greeks and Romans. To them, the "dog days" were when Sirius, the dog star, appeared in the heavens, coinciding with the hottest days of summer.  They are here now, and our suffering dog has his own way of coping.

His tongue hangs out all day. He pants continuously. Sleeps wrapped around a sweating toilet bowl. Doesn't want to go out, and, when he must, wants in immediately. He slobbers water on the floor in his haste to cool his thirst. He looks at me with sad eyes as if I could do something. I give him some of my ice cream. Happy for the moment, he retreats back to the toilet bowl.

two- week heat wave
cooling in the fridge
salads and underwear


Friday, June 7, 2019

Haiku in Lavander

cutting brush—
over the Russian sage
bees power-up

spilling over the fence
the neighbor's anger

freshly plowed field
purple wildflowers
outside the fence
Haiku Lines
Bottle Rockets

Saturday, June 1, 2019


THE SUMMER OF 2012     

The village is a piece of small-town America, a one traffic-light town, a main street lined on both sides with honey locusts. Tubs and window boxes filled with flowers. Old brick buildings. Neat houses and well tended lawns and gardens.  A variety of shops.  Once. Not now.  Not this summer.  For sale signs in front of many houses.  Some empty, the gardens and grass left to go wild, wither and die. Empty store fronts. The pharmacy gone.  The general store gone.  A restaurant gone. A card and gift shop, antique shop, real estate, children’s shop, food shop.  Gone.

People come up with ideas and plans.  A community playhouse in an unused building. A housing development on the edge of the village where stands a deteriorating girls’ school.  A lot of talk and no action. A lot of questions and no answers.  We wait.

white hot sky–
with an ancient dance
we pray for rain


Saturday, May 25, 2019

Corning Glass Haiga




Haigaonline Featured Artist

Tuesday, May 14, 2019


tulips aplenty
more than I hoped
more than I planted

soft dampness
the silken feel of spring 
on my arms

a gentle breeze
tickling my senses
first peonies


Friday, May 10, 2019



A quiet drive from Granada to Seville.  We reach Estepa, a village existing in defiance of gravity, as if by sheer stubbornness.

                                                                             the brown hills—
                                 white stucco houses anchored
                                 with olive trees

A dazzling light bounces off the white surfaces. No cantina or cafĂ© visible. Hot cobblestones and cool gardens behind stone walls with iron gates and tinkling fountains. Geraniums as big as bushes, oleander bushes as big as trees. Food smells from an alley, the clink of cutlery and the murmur of muffled voices, but empty streets.  Not even a dog or a cat.

                                   our footsteps seeming louder
                                   the further we walk

A sign:  Mercado. A peek through the open door. Dark and cooler inside.  More like someone's home than a market.  A few chunks of hard dry goat cheese on a counter, bottles of water as warm as the air.

                                                                                  the hot shade—
                                     eating bread and oranges
                                     and red dust 

Bottle Rockets

Thursday, May 2, 2019



The village is old, similar to the birthplace of my ancestors, one like many others that form my ethnic and cultural past.

rugged hills
shadow the stone houses—
tripping on cobbles

The family name is not here in this village, but that is not important.  The faces are the same.  My father's mother, frail, dressed in black, with white hair pulled tightly into a bun, is here.

searching for family—
the stooped old woman
with a distant smile

My mother's father, sturdy, full-chested, with a bushy mustache and sunburned skin on his bald head is here.  I see him again as a young man with curly black hair and strong muscles unloading barrels from a truck.  Other young men with their laughing mouths and casual swagger 
standing on the corners and in the coffee bars are my uncles and cousins.  The black-eyed women pushing fat olive skinned babies, the small boys in their short pants and dirty faces, the skinny girls with their faded dresses. All are my mothers and fathers, now young again.
                                                        a boy with big ears
skidding around a corner
a vespa spews fumes      

The images raise a few hackles on the back of my neck.  It is as if I have come home.

Stylus Poetry Journal