Tanka

                                                                      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

 

Haiku

                                                             

                                                               windfall apples

                                                                I cook the fruit

                                                                in a dented pot

Modern  Haiku

winter2015

                                

                                                        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

Haibun

                                                                  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

Haiga

Daily Haige