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

Saturday, October 8, 2016


Daily Haige