Thursday, December 27, 2012


Posted by Picasa

Gean Tree Press, March 2011

Saturday, December 22, 2012


Posted by Picasa
                       PARIS CAFE IN DECEMBER

                       intermittent rain–
                       coffee and tobacco smoke
                       from an open door

                       a wailing siren –
                       beyond the streaked glass
                       no promises

                        damp wool and steam–
                        the holiday restored
                        with a brandy

Modern Haiku, spring 2005

Friday, December 14, 2012


                                  snowy afternoon
                               a slow accumulation
                                      of desire

A Hundred Gourds, June 2012
Posted by Picasa

Saturday, December 8, 2012


Posted by Picasa
                                           ice floes
                                                following the river tide–
                                                     it is what it is
Presence, Summer 2012

Saturday, December 1, 2012


                                 slipping in with the cold
                                 of December;
                                 like a child I plan and dream
                                 and polish my sparkle

Moonset, spring 2010

Thursday, November 22, 2012

Sunday, November 18, 2012


    Posted by Picasa                               Daggett Street
One fourth of the yard given to vegetables, one fourth to grass and a clothesline, one half to a grape arbor.  Lilies-of-the-valley and jack o’lanterns grow in the shadows. Under the thick vines, pieces of linoleum placed over the hard packed dirt. A rusty metal table and wobbly chairs where Grandma sits shelling peas or mending, Grandpa drinking a glass of wine made from his own grapes.  Me as a toddler, my sister two years older, playing.

                                          muggy heat
                                a sudden awareness
                                  the clock stopped

Early morning trucks rumble up the street.  The Goodyear factory, a cheese processing plant, a paper box company–each with its own pick-ups and drop-offs.  The noise, the smells.  Just part of living on Daggett Street.  There are some benefits:  in summer, a thirsty group of workers always willing to buy lemonade from two little girls; in all seasons, brick factory walls good for tossing balls against.
                                        heavy snow
                                snuggling under a blanket
                                         of silence

The rooms empty, smaller with the furniture gone.  The house in need of paint, the arbor, full of grapes that will not be picked.  The taxi honks and we depart.

                                       autumn colors
                             blurring in a swirl of leaves
                                    all the days to come

Modern Haiku, Autumn 2011

Monday, November 12, 2012


Haigaonline, December 2010
Posted by Picasa

Friday, November 2, 2012


                                   mowed hay
                                   left to dry in the fields
                                   from green to golden
                                   from thin yielding blades
                                   to tightly rolled bales
Tanka Cafe
Ribbons, Autumn 2012
Posted by Picasa

Friday, October 26, 2012


Posted by Picasa
                                            PUB CRAWL

A cold night with a mist.  We walk with quick steps toward the old part of Dublin where there are numerous pubs. We have no particular destination, no special pub to find, just what strikes our fancy.  Along the main shopping area of the old town the pubs are crowded and lively.  Some more so than others.  We pick one, Doheny and Nesbitt, which appears popular.  Every inch of space is occupied, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip.  No television, no musical sound track.  Just drinks and talk, drinks and talk.   We elbow our way to the bar and get a Guinness.

                                                    middle of the room
                                         wrapped inside a maelstrom
                                                     of voices

The wind is up, blowing off the River Liffey. It is welcome after the stuffiness of the pub.  A brisk walk, trot to our next stop.  A larger pub, O’Donoghue’s, just as closely packed with customers. Standing room only again.  Between the pub and the building next to it is an alley, the smoking room.  Open at either end, covered on top and warmed with large electric heaters the smokers and their non-smoking friends congregate here.  We order a Jameson from a passing waitress and find two empty stools near a heater.

Everything flows–talk and laughter, alcohol and smoke.  And the wind through the alley.  We head back thinking that a two pub crawl is enough, but give in to one more on a side street.    Quieter than the other pubs, with two televisions and space at the bar or in a booth.  We choose a booth and have Irish coffee.  It is clearing when we leave, but much colder.
                                                          scudding clouds
                                              across a three quarter moon
                                                          the flashing night




Sunday, October 21, 2012


For Hector Combattente


It is 1908.  He is a boy of 18 with only a few lira, his scissors and thimble in his pocket.  Left behind is a struggling family in a town often layered with the ashes of Vesuvius. He travels in steerage.  Twelve days in the bowels of the ship before docking in Boston harbor.

falling snow—
faces on the gangway
turn upward

From Boston to New York.  A crowded coach train, standing all the way.  The address of his brother securely pinned in the inner pocket of his jacket.

tramping through snow—
one street like another
yet all different

The universal language of craft lands him a job.  Other countrymen with their needles and thread sew together a strong bond.  He settles in, adjusting to the cold, throbbing city.  A city not paved  with gold, but covered with snow and garbage and teaming with the human throng.  He claims a place in a corner of his brother's apartment, in the community of tailors, in the New World.

signs of spring—
tenement buildings
sprout window boxes
Stylus Poetry Journal, April 2006

Posted by Picasa

Friday, October 12, 2012


                                      October rain
                                      splashing red and gold
                                      on the brick path

                                      the sharpness of autumn
                                      no words spoken

                                      early morning light
                                      filtered through autumn's trees
                                      your waking smile

Gean, December 2011
The Country and Abroad, September 2007
Pipe Dream, September 2011

Friday, October 5, 2012


                             A CHANGE OF SEASON

The leaves on the dogwood are the first to show a change.  Just a few leaves at first, and not the entire leaf.  Only the tips as if autumn is testing out shades.  Is this red deep enough?

I'm geared for autumn–wood neatly stacked, woolens all brushed and aired.  My neighbor shares the last of his tomatoes and basil with me, still damp from the late afternoon mist.

                               boiling pasta–
                               through an open window
                               steam mixing with fog 

Stylus Poetry Journal, December 2002

Posted by Picasa

Thursday, September 27, 2012



                               watery sunshine–
                               the overnight leaves
                               piled at the door

                               tenth floor–
                               a picture window view
                               of fog

                               a brisk wind–
                               the memory of old wine
                               in wet leaves

Gean, summer 2009

Posted by Picasa

Saturday, September 22, 2012


A Hundred Gourds, March 2012
Posted by Picasa

Thursday, September 13, 2012


                               Late Summer Haiku

                                 top of the ridge
                                 distant cow bells
                                 behind the wind

                                 the cicadas' whine
                                 always in the tree
                                 just ahead

                                 neighbors shouting
                                 from the wild grapes
                                 multiple bird calls

Modern Haiku, no. 1, 1976
Riverbed Haiku, Autumn 2008
Pipe Dreams, 9/2011

Posted by Picasa

Thursday, September 6, 2012


                                         WINE HARVEST
                                    ripe concord grapes–
                                    in the backyard a contest
                                    of spitting skins

It is a hot day in early September.  My grandfather picks grapes from the arbor to make wine.  My sister and I are told to stay out of his way and out of trouble.  Grandpa’s paisan arrives with additional grapes to supplement the backyard harvest, and they work together.  By late afternoon several baskets stand in even rows.  My mother will take one basket for jelly.  The rest will be pressed into juice, strained, bottled and stored in the cellar.

                                         sweat on his brow–
                                      he brushes cobwebs
                                      from last year’s bottle

Contemporary Haibun On-line, Spring 2011

Posted by Picasa

Friday, August 31, 2012


Summer Haiku

rose trellis
shadows on the wall
woven by the wind

first light
a coolness in the call
of mourning doves

summer dampness   surrounded
       on a country road   night smells

Shiki kukai, 11/2010
Presence , autumn 2010
Taj Mahal Review, winter 2008
(with some modification)-

Friday, August 24, 2012


                                            THOUGHTS ON A HOT NIGHT

Old apprehensions and worries return in dreams.  Final exams, new job, no job.  Misunderstandings, disappointments, changes, both planned and unexpected.  The present and the past skewed and twisted, a tangle of truth and nightmare, a canvas of smeared colors.

Upon awakening, elusive remnants remain.  A piece here… there.  Sometimes pleasant, sometimes unsettling.

                                             full summer moon–
                                             an owl asks “Who?”
                                             I ask ,”Why?”
 Gean, spring 2011

Posted by Picasa

Friday, August 17, 2012


Posted by Picasa
Haigaonline, summer 2012 Featured Artist

Saturday, August 11, 2012


a slow darkness–
lingering in the shadows
all the day’s heat

insects at dusk–
their monotone broken
by a dog’s bark

late afternoon–
a breeze pushes the heat
from here to there

HSA Anthology, 2006
Frogpond, spring 2008
World Haiku Review, spring 2009

Friday, August 3, 2012

Haiku Sequence

                                         THE DUST BOWL

                                          early morning
                                          before the wind rises
                                          a glimpse of the sun

                                          feeding chickens
                                          the children tethered
                                          to a rope

                                          rolling dust
                                          the horizon opens
                                          and closes

                                          wind gusting–
                                          another meal of potatoes
                                          and grit

                                          picked corn
                                          beneath the dust
                                          more dust

                                          clothes on the line
                                          the first dry and dirty
                                          before the last

                                          sheriff’s auction
                                          her good china divided
                                          into sets of two

                                          Sunday service
                                          prayers for rain
                                          blown away

                                          sweat down my face–
                                          counting the roads
                                          out of town

Frogpond, Summer 2012

Posted by Picasa

Saturday, July 28, 2012


Daily Haiga, July 24, 2012
Posted by Picasa

Friday, July 20, 2012


                                     stick bug
                                     its camouflage useless
                                     on a white wall
                                     like my love
                                     clear and open
Moonbathing, winter 2011
Posted by Picasa

Saturday, July 14, 2012



We visit an historic house, one of many in the Hudson Valley.  

 Along the drive leading up to the mansion is an avenue of black locust.  The signature tree on this estate.  More locust on the river side.  Some over 200 years old.  Deep, knife-like ridges, forming as the tree ages, extend lengthwise down the trunk.

squinting in the sun–
character lines deeper
with each tree

We stroll past the trees, across the arboretum spread out on the far end of an expansive lawn.  Red and white oak, beech, tulip, sweet gum, sycamore, maple. Each planted to give pleasure to the viewer for its size, shape and position on the lawn.

We continue around the mansion, stepping onto the veranda.

a reclining chair
 with a river view–
a life before mine

A side path leads to a series of garden rooms, one spilling into another, like the waterfall in a shadowed corner tumbling into a pool.  The breeze plays little tricks–first teasing with late blooming roses, then honeysuckle, then sage.  We meander on the paths, noting the curving lines, the seemingly unplanned plan.  A spontaneous eruption of vistas – lawns, gardens, river.

the cries of geese
crossing the hunting grounds
of ancient tribes

Henry: A Hudson Valley Journal
May 2011

Posted by Picasa

Friday, July 6, 2012


A Hundred Gourds, March 2012
Posted by Picasa

Friday, June 29, 2012


                            a summer rain
                            breaking the heat wave-
                            darkness descends

World Haiku Review, December 2002
Posted by Picasa

Saturday, June 23, 2012


Haiku Reality, December 2010
Posted by Picasa