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