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


Saturday, February 18, 2017

Haibun


                                              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

Haiku



                                                                        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
Chrysanthemum

Friday, January 27, 2017

Haibun

                                       
                                
                                                          
                                                                 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