Saturday, April 22, 2017


river walk
the scent of lilacs
and fresh tar

our new home
neglected in and out
but for white lilacs

Kernels, summer 2013
3 Lights Gallery, Oct. 2008

Monday, April 17, 2017



                                                                 DINNER WITH THE FAMILY

He is 16.  Long hair and a pierced ear.  Baggy jeans and extra large tee shirt.  He is with his parents and grandparents.  They talk to each other, but not to him.  He sits apart and says nothing.  He is 16.

                                                                  darkness falls
                                                                  in the dense woods
                                                                  all that’s hidden

Contemporary Haibun On-Line,
Sept. 2009

Thursday, April 6, 2017


A Hundred Gourds

Wednesday, March 29, 2017


                                                                                ice floes
                                                                                stop and go traffic
                                                                                on the river road

                                                                               frigid temps
                                                                               the radiator's soft ping
                                                                               in the night

                                                                               spring thaw
                                                                               that dirt road
                                                                               going nowhere still

Living Haiku Anthology
March 2017

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Tanka Sequence

                                                               TIME PASSING    

                                                                   longer nights
                                                                   he slips into his last sleep
                                                                   the release he waited for
                                                                   is not his alone

                                                                   Dutch homestead
                                                                   a rusted water pump
                                                                   the handle half-way;
                                                                   so many stories forgotten
                                                                   so many never finished

                                                                    double-Dutch jump rope
                                                                    the sureness and speed
                                                                    of the girls’ steps;                                                             
                                                                    how unalike I am
                                                                    with my hesitant moves

                                                                     sometimes I see you
                                                                     when you are young with dark hair
                                                                     moving easily
                                                                     your shoulders straight, your face smooth
                                                                     before I know of time passing

                                                                      I saw you last night
                                                                      felt your presence
                                                                      heard your voice
                                                                      and know you will come again
                                                                      when I least expect it
Ribbons, March 2013

Thursday, March 9, 2017



A rarity, blood oranges at the market.  I buy several and remember her delight when she found them again decades after leaving her home in the Sicilian hills.  The mottled red orange skin, the reddish flesh, juicy and sweet.
I add goat cheese to my cart and remember her stories about buying cheese and milk from the goat boy every morning.
I remember her dark eyes and warm smile and her deft way with a cooking spoon.
I arrange the red orange segments, spiraling them on a plate, toss a few cubes of goat cheese here and there, squeeze on some of the red juice, sprinkle with olive oil, salt and a generous shake of freshly ground black pepper.
                                                                  lunch under the pines
                                                                  the breeze stirs up a fragrance
                                                                  from afar
Contemporary Haibun Online
June 2009

Monday, February 27, 2017

Haiku Sequence

                                                                           MOUTHE, FRANCE

                                                                           chickens scratching in the road
                                                                           the flying dust

                                                                           at the lumber mill
                                                                           only the river noises
                                                                           and the wind

                                                                           moss covered church
                                                                           creeping through the open door
                                                                           the warmth of May

                                                                           in the graveyard
                                                                           one freshly weeded patch
                                                                           the sharp lettering

Modern Haiku, 1974

Saturday, February 18, 2017


                                              RACHMANINOFF PIANO CONCERTO No.2     

There is drama in the opening chords.  The piano alone— six times the same chord, beginning pianissimo, getting louder with each repetition.  Then a sweeping blend of violins and piano.  I listen and forget the arduous task I’m doing, peddling my exercise bike.  The music lifts me beyond  the mundane aspects of daily life.

                                              icy sleet
                                              on the windows—
                                              empty bird feeder

Now an introduction of horns and full orchestra.  The piano, romantic in tone.  A quiet orchestral melody.  Hollywood borrowed the melody for a film years ago.  Everyone of a certain age would know it.

I’m there in the concert hall.  Spotlight on the pianist, his head bent over the keys, fingers flying. The audience is in shadow. All still but for the occasional  cough or sneeze.  Bike exercise completed, I remain listening.  An increased tempo in the third movement.    Passages of piano fireworks, each note quick, clear and sharp.  I’ve listened to this so often I can anticipate each phrase, each note.  Then the full orchestra again, soaring with the melody and finally closing with a strong crescendo.

                                                   with gloved hands
                                                   spilling bird seed—
                                                   sleet down my collar

World Haiku Review, March 2003

Friday, February 10, 2017

Saturday, February 4, 2017


                                                                        soft snow
                                                                        the cold floats down
                                                                        one flake at a time

                                                                        late winter cold
                                                                        long underwear
                                                                        frayed at the cuffs

                                                                        crackling in the air–
                                                                        on a frigid afternoon
                                                                        tea and ginger snaps
A Hundred Gourds
Daily Haiku

Friday, January 27, 2017


                                                                 A DAY IN JANUARY           

Today, I begin to remove the holiday decorations. Some have been part of my holiday celebrations since childhood, ornaments that I inherited when my parents passed away. Others are from my husband’s family. There are paper ornaments made by our children and grandchildren.  Ornaments from places we visited and from friends.

                                                                      bits and baubles
                                                                      wrapping the years
                                                                      in tissue

Haibun Today, December 2015


Monday, January 23, 2017


Daily Haiga

Friday, January 13, 2017

Tanka Sequence

                                                               WHEN DISASTER COMES

                                                            (Hurricane Sandy, October 2012)

                                                                   snug in my home
                                                                   with after dinner coffee–
                                                                   is it luck or fate?
                                                                   that we are here not there
                                                                   with just each other and hope
                                                                    day after day                       
                                                                    the mundane things I do
                                                                    with barely a thought
                                                                    until I remember
                                                                    the speed in which life changes

                                                                    bleak images
                                                                    the fodder of nightmares
                                                                    the truth of now;
                                                                    helplessness prevails
                                                                    hopelessness bores deeper
                                                                     day becomes night
                                                                     and becomes day again
                                                                     with still no answer
                                                                     why some were chosen
                                                                     and others spared

                                                                     from home to market
                                                                     all my wants granted
                                                                     how easy to forget
                                                                     those with neither home nor food
                                                                     and only sky for shelter

                                                                     thanking God
                                                                     for keeping family safe,
                                                                     guilty with relief
                                                                     I accept each day
                                                                     as a slippery gift
Cattails, Jan. 2014

Saturday, January 7, 2017


                                                         this grip of cold
                                                         icy winds from the north
                                                         freezing all they touch
                                                         a time to recollect
                                                         the warmth of you in my life

                                                         the coldest month
                                                         each day a variation
                                                         on the theme of winter
                                                         I sense nuances of change
                                                         both in mind and body

                                                         frigid morning
                                                         my breath leaving traces...
                                                         like memories of loved one
                                                         is the soul just a vapor?


Monday, January 2, 2017


                                                      A SWISS VILLAGE CHRISTMAS

On a Saturday before Christmas, Kris Kringle visits our village.  Tall and slender in a dark red suit, reminiscent of pictures on old European Christmas cards.  He carries oranges and peppermint sticks and lumps of coal.  The children wait quietly.  Well mannered, there is no pushing and no whining.   Their last chance to prove how good they have been. 

                                                             gently falling snow—
                                                             a child whispers to Kris Kringle
                                                             and holds out his hand

Holiday decorations are few.  Wreaths in shop windows or colored lights.  Nothing elaborate.  Snow provides the best decoration.  And the moon, illuminating snow covered fields and woods.

                                                              Christmas Eve—       
                                                              searching the stars
                                                              in a blue-black sky
There is a midnight Mass, and the small wooden church is crowded.  The responses in prayer are smooth and in unison.  No laggards here.  We all sing or try to.  Familiar hymns in Latin or English become unfamiliar in French.  I hum along.

                                                               flickering candles—
                                                               the joy of Christmas
                                                               in a foreign tongue

Bottle Rockets, spring 2006 #14