Monday, December 28, 2015


                                                  rain and snow
                                                  another closet
                                                  cleaned today

                             skeletal trees in deep snow shadow patterns

                                                  all the bushes

Bottle Rockets
A Hundred Gourds
South x Southeast

Thursday, December 17, 2015


                                              SINGING CHRISTMAS MASS  
The first Mass on Christmas at St. Anthony’s Church is at 6:00 a.m.  I am 13 years old and sing in the choir.  It is still dark when I arrive, and the church is not fully lighted, just the vestibule and the choir loft where we gather for a brief practice.  This first Mass and the last at noon will be high Masses.

 Lights come on in the sanctuary, candles are lighted, the heat is turned on.  At such an early hour the church is only half filled.   Stained glass windows, dark when Mass begins, gradually brighten as the sun rises, and beams of color travel over pillars and pews.  The organ swells; our voices blend harmoniously; the fragrance of pine boughs, candles and incense float up to the choir loft as our voices float out over the congregation.

                                                      the sun in my eyes
                                                      singing “Gloria”
                                                      from memory

Contemporary Haibun On-line, Sept. 2011


Friday, December 11, 2015



                                                    today's wind
                                                    stripping autumn
                                                    to the bone

                                                    masons at work
                                                    creeping along the stone wall
                                                    afternoon fog

                                                    heavy fog
                                                    the changing shape
                                                    of this day

Heron's Nest

Saturday, November 28, 2015

Saturday, November 14, 2015


                                                   damp infested wood
                                                   growing in the garden shed
                                                   two types of mushrooms

                                                   autumn garden
                                                   gathering this and that
                                                   for a last display

                                                   mist and fog
                                                   the smeill of November

Under the Basho, 2014
Frog Pond, summer 2014
Bottle Rockets, 8/2014

Saturday, November 7, 2015



Next to my wedding photo is one of my mother’s on her wedding day.  The pictures were taken 30 years apart.  Comparing my face as it is now and as it was then, I see the same bone structure, thick eyebrows, a small indentation in my chin.  My now face has wrinkles around the mouth.  My hair is white and my neck is crinkly.  When I compare the two me’s it is always with a surprised feeling of time, not just time flying, but never coming back.  Looking at my mother’s picture is less startling.  I don’t think of her appearance when she died.  I see her photo every day when she was young.  I imagine knowing her then.  Dark eyes and hair, smooth olive toned skin, a delicate nose and a mouth showing the tender beginnings of a smile.  A beauty in a Juliet cap and ivory velvet gown, the smooth fit showing well her slim figure.

                                                     before the midnight bong
                                                         her face in shadow

Modern Haibun and Tanka Prose, June 2009

Sunday, October 25, 2015

Haiga: Found Haiku


published Haigaonline
spring 2016
found haiku from
Thomas Hardy's poetry
and short stories

Saturday, October 17, 2015


                                                    A LANDMARK

For years the empty farm house and out buildings are left to fade into their surroundings. Unpicked corn provides food for birds. The stalks gradually dry up. collapse and blow away. Hay bales soak rain, become moldy, dry out, freeze, soak up more rain and slowly disappear into the soil. It is a familiar part of the scenery, this decaying farm with the crumbling buildings until one day there is nothing but bare acres.

                                                    abandoned farm house
                                                    the quiet way it goes
                                                up in flames.

A Hundred Gourds, Dec. 2013

Sunday, October 11, 2015


                                              death of a friend
                                              more leaves
                                              turning brown

                                              autumn leaves
                                              the puppy switches directions
                                              with the wind

                                              storm clouds part
                                              a spotlight shines
                                              on autumn

Under the Basho, 2014
Presence, May 2005
Cattails, autumn 2014


Sunday, October 4, 2015


                                                    power outage
                                                    candlelight stories
                                                    with a sip of scotch

                                                    escape from the storm
                                                    teenage boys in the cafe
                                                    bring their own thunder

                                                    nervous new editor
                                                    sends herself
                                                    a reject

Modern Haiku
Muse Apprentice Guild

Tuesday, September 22, 2015


            Insomnia is gray. Not the pearl gray of the buttons on a new spring suit.  There is no iridescence at 2:00am.  No faint hints of pink or powder blue, no lights reflecting off a smooth polished surface.
            It is not the dove gray of a pair of soft, leather gloves.  There is nothing pliable or supple at 3:00 a.m. Nor is it the gray of storm clouds, charged with ions and full of power.

            The gray at 4:00 a.m. is dull and dead.
                                     an instinctive pull
                                     to the glow of the street lamp-
                                     the dance of moths

            Insomnia is gravel gray.  Dark, uneven, blotchy.  A gray mass covered with a dusty film and course sandy grit.  With each move and turn, the dust lifts and floats inside my head, obscuring thoughts.  The grit irritates the soft tissues of the soul and imbeds itself in the spongy surface of the mind.

                                       hidden lives
                                      in the shadowy night-
                                      the cries of insects

            The gray swells until it has filled all the spaces that no candle or incandescent light can dispel.  Then…the first, nearly imperceptible tint of dawn gray, and the gravel gray, suddenly and completely, retreats to a corner and waits.

                                       repeated bird calls-
                                       lulled to sleep by the language
                                       of morning
Presence, May 2005

Sunday, September 13, 2015



Published Daily Haiga
5/12/4;  7/4/12;  2/6/13

Friday, September 4, 2015


                                              green and orange leaves
                                              the capriciousness
                                              of autumn;
                                                      how do I explain
                                                      the changes in my life?

                                              in these cool days
                                              it is her shawl I wear–
                                              a vibrant orange
                                              flashing stich after stich
                                              through her flying fingers

Magnapoets, Jan. 2009
Modern Tanka Press, July 2009

Saturday, August 22, 2015


                                                A SUMMER DUSK 

It is late dusk. The tall pines are silhouettes against the fading light in a sky still streaking purple with a tinge of pink. Soon all color is gone and the first star appears. Star light. Star bright. What wishes I had as a child. To be a ballerina. A silly wish as there was no money for ballet lessons. To have a doll house. I did get that wish. Not the big dollhouse I saw in the department store toy section, but a dollhouse.

My wishes now are different. Health for family and continued love and security. Perhaps some rain to cool off this muggy night. And a breeze to chase away the mosquitoes which are not repulsed by the citronella candles.

                                               crickets and tree frogs
                                               are they singing or wishing
                                               on a star?

Bottle Rockets, summer 2015

Monday, August 10, 2015


                                           at this age
                                           I choose only vibrant colors
                                           for the garden;
                                           there is no time to languish
                                           in melancholy

                                           I tend my plants
                                           with a mixture of awe
                                           and frustration;
                                           like my poems some grow, some die
                                           and some are weeds I still keep

                                           not quite full dark
                                           my imagination kindled
                                           by silhouettes
                                           the blackness of ancient pines
                                           sparked with fireflies

Bottle Rockets, Feb. 2009
Kernels, April 2013
Magnapoets, summer 2009

Wednesday, July 29, 2015


                                                     FRAT PARTY

 We try hard to have a good time, to smoke and drink, to laugh at the dirty jokes, to play poker with the boys who prefer cards to dancing, to show an interest when talk turns to football or basketball, to be willing to kiss in the shadows and in the back bedroom

                                                   slow dancing
                                                   under a full moon
                                                   we call it love


Wednesday, July 22, 2015


                                             the carousel horses
                                             in the final stretch

                                             white sheets on the line
                                             slow-motion clouds
                                             in the summer sky

                                             wild roses
                                             the iron trellis
                                             tilts to one side

Presence May 2005
Haiku Harvest, autumn 2005
Heron's Nest, March 2006

Saturday, July 11, 2015


Haigaonline, Featured Artist,
spring 2014

Monday, July 6, 2015


Daily Haiga, May 2013

Monday, June 29, 2015


                                                     spring dawn
                                                     with the returning geese
                                                     my mind takes flight

                                                     yellow broom gone wild
                                                     the freedom to write
                                                     as I please
                                                     moonless sky–
                                                     the deep night speaks
                                                     with many voices
Shiku Kukai, April 2015
Acorn, summer 2015
Presence, winter 2015

Tuesday, June 23, 2015


                                                   INNISFREE GARDEN   

We went back to Innisfree today. One hundred fifty acres surrounding a lake, sectioned into "cup gardens". We begin on the path which circles the lake, but frequently meander up soft grassy slopes or stone steps, pausing at each vignette. We step over trickling water or cross on a narrow wooden bridge, get sprayed by mist from a water spout, listen to the gurgle as water splays down rocks and into a basin.

Butterflies, bumblebees, dragon flies, humming birds seek out the nectar on Joe Pye weed, black eyed Susans, goldenrod, and other flowers secreted in between rocks. Tall grasses bend, swishing lightly, along the lake. Rock plinths and mounds create shadows and shape my imagination. Lotus and water lilies color one end of the lake.

                                                small ripples
                                                from a dragonfly
                                                a pause to rest

                                                air bubbles
                                                breaking through the lake's surface
                                                all that lies hidden

A heron poised on a lily pad maintains its position long after I take its picture. Ferns fill the bogs.  We cross a bridge spanning a channel in the lake and continue on the path, now bulging with tree roots.

                                                uphill walk
                                                the rough path eases
                                                into the promised view

                                                sultry heat
                                                cooling reflections
                                                in the lake

World Haiku Review, June 2015 

Friday, June 12, 2015


                                                       the old town
                                                    even now the rough stones
                                                    soak up the warmth
                                                    early morning walk
                                                    reaching through the mist
                                                    for wild berries

                                                    a walk to the beach
                                                    the asphalt road changes
                                                    to sand 

World Haiku Review, Aug. 2005
Simply Haiku, Aug. 2006
Solares Hill, May 2005

Friday, June 5, 2015


                                              A TASTE  OF HONEY

You expect to find that your childhood home is older.  You also find it smaller.  Duller.  The neighborhood is confined, insulated, a world unto itself.  You wouldn’t fit in even if it were ship-shape and clean of graffiti and rusting cars.  Even if there were neat plantings in front of each house and window boxes with flowers and children playing hop-scotch or roller skating on the sidewalks.  Even if the older folks sat on their front porches on a summer night and gossiped. You know it would not be your home anymore. 

                                                   the taste of honey
                                                   into nothing
Bottle Rockets, Winter 2014


Tuesday, May 26, 2015


Daily Haiga spring 2010

Saturday, May 16, 2015


                                           CELEBRATION OF SPRING

Early spring.  Time for the cows in the Swiss village to leave the winter pastures and head for the mountains.  We gather at dawn with three other foreign families for a traditional ceremony.  A blessing from the priest, a prayer, a song. 

The cows are adorned with ribbons, flowers and bells; the cow herder and his young helper with lederhosen, embroidered suspenders and perky feathered hats.

                                             morning mist–
                                             we follow the scent
                                             of slow moving cows

Up into the Jura we drive, breaking through the fog.  La Madame, the owner of the herd, meets us at her fromagerie in the mountains.  The cows disburse in the open pastures. Pigs shurp their feed in mud-soaked pens. Goats roam freely around the small sleeping hut and the work buildings.

 La Madame, weathered hardened and wiry, dressed in worn work pants and knee high rubber boots. "Ecoutez.  Listen," she tells us. 

We lean forward, trying hard to understand her lesson in cheese making.

                                          bubbling vats of cheese–
                                          a slice of sunlight shines
                                          through a high window

We follow her again, now to her chalet a little further up the mountain.  A vista of sweeping meadows, wildflowers and rock croppings.  Le Monsieur is laying stones for a wall.    Before we can eat, there is work. The men in our party carry stones and level dirt; the women slice bread and carry wood.  In this corner of the Jura everything is as it was a hundred years earlier. A wood stove, water pumped from a well, lanterns for light.

We breakfast on strong coffee with fresh cream, baskets of crusty bread with sweet butter and the local current jam.  Even today, time does not move.

                                         an invitation
                                         from the warm sun and soft grass—
                                         the bugs ignored

Stylus Poetry , Dec. 2005

Tuesday, May 5, 2015


fern glen
we find the creek
by its song
early morning breathing spring after rain
early breakfast
with morning glories
the ticking clock
Heron's Nest, Sept.2014
Under the Basho, 2014
Daily Haiku cycle 11, 2011

Saturday, April 25, 2015



All the pastels of spring.  In the sky, in the leaves, in the grass and flowers. The air, washed clean by rain, smells fresh with the richness of wet soil.  Early blustery winds have been gentled into soft breezes.                                                           

                                                cherry blossoms–
                                                remembering the ruffles
                                                on a pink dress

Frogpond, summer 2012

Wednesday, April 15, 2015


                                                 blue doors of Naxos
                                                 matching the sea
                                                 matching the sky
                                                 the breeze whispering
                                                 as to what lies behind

TSA Anthology, 2014