Sunday, October 14, 2018


                                                        A COUNTRY HAIBUN

A murky sky on a late winter day.  The farm country is brown. Rolling pastures of dried brown grass, plowed fields of muddy dirt, corn fields left with a golden brown stubble. Here and there a white farmhouse with outbuildings in either red or white.  Otherwise, the vista is brown, brown, brown.

There is a subdued beauty about the brown hills, their sweep and curve, their valleys and ridges. A smoothness and a calmness in their brown coat.  A solid color, brown.  Dependable, lasting.  On this dull day horses and cows stand quietly in pastures.  The stillness of a painting by a Dutch master, but for the crows. 

                                                            cawing and pecking
                                                            down one hill and up another
                                                            black dots on brown

Bottle Rockets #17, August 2007

Saturday, October 6, 2018

Haiku for Autumn

                                                              first glimpse of fall
                                                              what I planned to do . . .
                                                              what I did

                                                             slow line of traffic
                                                             above . . . the V formation
                                                             of geese

                                                             pelting the windshield
                                                             yellow poplar leaves
                                                             swished up by cars

Stylus Poetry Journal

Thursday, September 20, 2018


                                           DRAWING BLOOD   

She is young and willing. How could he, an aging widower, resist her soft and waiting arms, her silky and responsive body? The coming baby is unexpected, a problem for him and his family.  

“My best friend!” his daughter says.

“She’s no better than a whore,” his mother and sisters say. “Worse than marrying Enid, that lazy, frizzy blonde.”

Enid had coped with gin to silence the criticism, until the gin silenced her. And, where had he been all those years?  Cowering in the background, afraid of the harpies’ condemnation. A coward then. A coward now.  

Should he pay her off? Send her away and wash his hands? Even lye wouldn’t clean them or strip away his guilt.

a pile of ash
and cigarette butts–
the night
ticking into dawn
burning memories

a sharp stab
drawing blood–
can he suture the wound
with repentance and grief?

one bad turn
does not beget another–
there is a new road
free of litter and detours
leading to a second chance

Haibun Today, Tanka Prose, March 2018

Thursday, September 13, 2018

Haiga for Autumn

Daily Haiga

Tuesday, August 28, 2018


tea roses
the heart of the garden
was her presence
still growing in abundance
missing their sweetness

Ribbons 2017

Wednesday, August 15, 2018



On the way to Cape Cod we stop in New Haven, city of my birth.  The refurbished carousel at Lighthouse Point is the attraction. A mostly cloudy morning, only groups of children from day camps on the beach. Each sports its own distinctive tee shirt. No one in the water.  At low tide, the gray glassy sea spreads out flat in the distance. The pavilion housing the carousel is open, but empty.  The horses look as fresh as I remember them.  Shiny black or white, dappled grays, rich mahogany. Guilt edged benches, gleaming brass poles.  All the glitter of my youth restored.

A young woman sells me a ticket. "You have to wait for that group of campers."  She points to a bunched mass of six and seven year olds squirming in a ragged line. We take a walk away from the campers and the carousel. Unlike the pavilion, the park and other structures are worn out. Scrub grass and blown beach sand. Chipped paint and graffiti. 

                                                the lighthouse–
                                                after fifty years, smaller
                                                than memories

Back at the pavilion. "Come on," says the young woman. "That group will take all day to get organized." She turns on the carousel lights and the calliope.  By the Sea, In the Good Old Summertime, On a Bicycle Built for Two.Old songs from the pumping calliope, old even when I was a child.

                                                a lone rider
                                                on the merry-go-round–
                                                here and there a ghost

Contemporary Haibun On-line, spring 2006

Tuesday, July 31, 2018


                                                             twilight stroll
                                                             my fingers perfumed
                                                             with sage

                                                             half asleep
                                                             wrapped in the morning coolness
                                                             humming cicadas

                                                             yellow butterfly
                                                             in the heart of a lily
                                                             the taste of new wine

Taj Mahal Review
Daily Haiku