Monday, December 5, 2016



                                                              ANOTHER WORLD  

Where do we go when we dream? Do we enter another world of unexplainable time, where past and present mingle?

 There is pleasure in seeing loved ones no longer alive, nostalgia and amazement in visiting places from my childhood.

                                                      summer porches
                                                      the nightly click of glasses
                                                      and neighborly talk

There is fear and anxiety as events unfold not as they happened, but jumbled and disastrous. Failure in school, missing the last bus at midnight, driving alone and hopelessly lost on a dark road, an intruder in the house. There is confusion when I appear as an adult with husband and family in my hometown. No one has died and the neighborhood is the same, only I have changed. What does it mean when I must walk in the ocean to reach my destination, drive along a road with a steep precipice on either side, walk barefoot and coatless in snow or climb mountains of mud? Where am I? Where do I go?

                                                   the trip back
                                                   on a foggy road
                                                   remembering nothing

Contemporary Haibun, Oct. 2014

Monday, November 21, 2016


                                                       KINDERGARTEN–THE FIRST DAY

Outside the classroom door, I hesitate, unsure, anxious.  Softly crying, “I want to go home.”

Inside, a young teacher.  Slender, soft voice, pretty hair, pretty dress.  Still… “ I want to go home.”

“All mothers must leave.  It will be fine.” 

No.  Not fine.   “ WANT…TO…GO…HOME!"

"Stop that or you'll get a spanking."

 I don’t like her.  She’s shaking me and she’s not pretty.   My new shoes slip across the floor as she pulls me to a place on the rug.


The other children, all looking.  Beginning to sniffle, whimper, cry.  Getting louder.  I’m louder still.


"Come here!"

 A different voice.  Deeper.  Older.  A giant in a dark dress.  Stiff gray hair pulled back and steel gray eyes behind steel-rimmed glasses.  She’s pulling me to the front of the room, to a chair where she sits.  Lifting me up and over her knees.  A brown leather strap in her hand, like Grandpa uses to sharpen his razor.   One Whack! Across my bottom.

"Are you going to stop that noise?” she asks, “Or do you want another spanking?"

Silence from the other children. The giant and I look at each other. I don’t like her, either, but I say nothing.  Sniff back the mucus and rub tears from my face. And still say nothing.  All morning, I say nothing.

Just before school is over, a summons to the principal's office.  The giant again, sitting at a large desk. "For being a good girl the rest of the morning,” she says.

                                             bouquet of flowers –
                                             small hands hold tightly
                                             the wet stems

Presence, 2008

Sunday, November 13, 2016


Daily Haiga
Daily Haiga
Simply Haiku

Saturday, November 5, 2016


                                                                INDIAN SUMMER  
There is a lot of country in the country.  Meadows and farms.  Vineyards and orchards.  My head swivels.  Left, right. Up the brightly colored hills and down the roads.
In the car's wake, leaves swirl.  Ponds and lakes offer up clear reflections.  A mélange of colors and odors–manure, hay, wood smoke. Today is different from yesterday, as tomorrow will be different from today.
                                                              news of her death
                                                              the colors drain
                                                              from the trees
Cattails, summer 2016

Friday, October 28, 2016


                                                                      REMEMBRANCE I
                                                                      a lone old woman—
                                                                      dried leaves swirling
                                                                      around her feet;
                                                                     she looks in my direction,
                                                                     and you return from a long way
                                                                      a bite in the wind—
                                                                      her hand lifts to secure
                                                                      her ruffled hair;
                                                                      from somewhere in memory
                                                                      you tell me to button up
                                                                       snow by morning—
                                                                       the old woman tightens her belt
                                                                       and shudders;
                                                                       I move to help her along,
                                                                       but she's lost in the shadows
                                                                       REMEMBRANCE II
                                                                       October's chill—
                                                                       from the old man's window
                                                                       leaves dying slowly,
                                                                       a beginning race with time
                                                                       and the weather
                                                                       all night the rain
                                                                       and the knocking wind—
                                                                       he speaks in whispers
                                                                       and waits for a morning
                                                                       that doesn't come
                                                                       clearing skies—
                                                                       the dull thud of damp earth
                                                                       on the coffin;
                                                                       how can a hundred and six years
                                                                       be confined in so small a space?
Ribbons, 2007

Monday, October 24, 2016


                                                               windfall apples
                                                                I cook the fruit
                                                                in a dented pot

Modern  Haiku

                                                        late autumn
                                                        driving toward the sunset
                                                        all the way home

Heron's Nest
May 2002

                                                meadow grass bent by the wind the purple plumes

Presence, winter 2009

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 café 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