Saturday, April 22, 2017

Haiku


river walk
the scent of lilacs
and fresh tar


our new home
neglected in and out
but for white lilacs

Kernels, summer 2013
3 Lights Gallery, Oct. 2008

Monday, April 17, 2017

Haibun

                           

                                                                 DINNER WITH THE FAMILY

He is 16.  Long hair and a pierced ear.  Baggy jeans and extra large tee shirt.  He is with his parents and grandparents.  They talk to each other, but not to him.  He sits apart and says nothing.  He is 16.

                                                                  darkness falls
                                                                  in the dense woods
                                                                  all that’s hidden

Contemporary Haibun On-Line,
Sept. 2009


Thursday, April 6, 2017

Haiga





A Hundred Gourds
Cattails
Chrysanthemum



Wednesday, March 29, 2017

Haiku

                                                     
                                                                                ice floes
                                                                                stop and go traffic
                                                                                on the river road


                                                                               frigid temps
                                                                               the radiator's soft ping
                                                                               in the night


                                                                               spring thaw
                                                                               that dirt road
                                                                               going nowhere still


Living Haiku Anthology
March 2017

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Tanka Sequence


                                                               TIME PASSING    

                                                                   longer nights
                                                                   he slips into his last sleep
                                                                   quietly
                                                                   the release he waited for
                                                                   is not his alone

                                                                   Dutch homestead
                                                                   a rusted water pump
                                                                   the handle half-way;
                                                                   so many stories forgotten
                                                                   so many never finished

                                                                    double-Dutch jump rope
                                                                    the sureness and speed
                                                                    of the girls’ steps;                                                             
                                                                    how unalike I am
                                                                    with my hesitant moves

                                                                     sometimes I see you
                                                                     when you are young with dark hair
                                                                     moving easily
                                                                     your shoulders straight, your face smooth
                                                                     before I know of time passing

                                                                      I saw you last night
                                                                      felt your presence
                                                                      heard your voice
                                                                      and know you will come again
                                                                      when I least expect it
Ribbons, March 2013


Thursday, March 9, 2017

Haibun

 

  BLOOD ORANGES
 
A rarity, blood oranges at the market.  I buy several and remember her delight when she found them again decades after leaving her home in the Sicilian hills.  The mottled red orange skin, the reddish flesh, juicy and sweet.
 
I add goat cheese to my cart and remember her stories about buying cheese and milk from the goat boy every morning.
 
I remember her dark eyes and warm smile and her deft way with a cooking spoon.
 
I arrange the red orange segments, spiraling them on a plate, toss a few cubes of goat cheese here and there, squeeze on some of the red juice, sprinkle with olive oil, salt and a generous shake of freshly ground black pepper.
 
                                                                  lunch under the pines
                                                                  the breeze stirs up a fragrance
                                                                  from afar
Contemporary Haibun Online
June 2009
 

Monday, February 27, 2017

Haiku Sequence




                                                                           MOUTHE, FRANCE

                                                                           Sunday
                                                                           chickens scratching in the road
                                                                           the flying dust

                                                                           at the lumber mill
                                                                           only the river noises
                                                                           and the wind

                                                                           moss covered church
                                                                           creeping through the open door
                                                                           the warmth of May

                                                                           in the graveyard
                                                                           one freshly weeded patch
                                                                           the sharp lettering

 
Modern Haiku, 1974