Haiku

bread baking

I soften the butter

for the first slice

Shamrock

Haiga

Haigaonline

Haiga

 

Haibun

 There Once Was a Time 

 

This is a time of joy, of pleasure in anticipation. The lights and sparkle, the fragrances and food. The snow and presents. This is a childhood Christmas.

 

December is the longest month in my impatient child mind. The days of Advent. Count them off–one, two, three…days of diligently working on the embroidered pillow cases for Aunt Jo, the making of paper chains and snowflakes, of sponge painting plain tissue to use as gift wrap, of helping Mom bake cookies and fruitcake.

 

There are trips into town to view the decorated windows, visits to toy land and Santa. It doesn't matter that department store Santas are seldom plump and rolly-polly, but often thin and angular. We know they are stand-ins for the real Santa who is busy working in the North Pole. This is a time to accept, to believe and hope, a time to wish, to ignore the news of the dead and dying, of battles won and lost in Europe and in the Pacific, a time to not speak of Uncle Jim fighting somewhere in Italy, a time not to complain about shortages, about Dad working late, about Mom working the swing shift from four to eleven p.m.

 

evening prayers

I forget and put myself

at the beginning

 Shamrock

Haibun

THANKSGIVING 

Home from Sunday Mass where I received communion. Climbing the back stairs to our flat, the fragrance hits me. Fried onions. Dad is at the stove making the pasta sauce for dinner. He takes a meatball, flattens it and cooks it along with the onions. I slice open one of the warm rolls I bought at the bakery near church and spread on some butter. It melts into a glistening pool. Dad tops this with onions and a smashed meatball. A little salt, lots of pepper and the top half of the roll.

full of Grace–

thanksgiving

in each bite

Contemporary Haibun Online

Haiga

Kernels 

Haibun

SUMMER CAMP 

an ekphrastic haibun inspired by

Bathers in The Forest, by August Renoir

 

 

At last! Back again at Totally Nude and Not Afraid Nudist Camp. Two weeks of freedom from the toil of work, the stench of the city, the constraint of clothes. Here in this secluded wooded glen, this tranquil pool, here where birds sing is perfect paradise. Here is where I can breathe.

 

"Henry! Stop that! You know the rules."

 

Look at Louise. She's put on some weight since last summer. Well, she's tall enough to carry a few more pounds. Janine and Marta are very close. Hmmmmm…I wonder. That's fine. If they're happy, that's what matters. Live and let live. 

 

"Henry! I mean it. Quit that."

 

Wonder what young Paul is dreaming about so quiet over there. Girls? Getting rich? Wonder what the school board would think if they knew I was here. 

 

"Miss Richmond, what did you do on your summer vacation?"

 

 I could give them an earful. Those fudd-dudds would have a stroke. 

 

"Henry! Enough! What's that? You say this is a nature camp and we should follow our nature? You should set a good example for the others, for young Paul. Observe the nature around you, think lofty thoughts and write a haiku. You'll feel better in the morning."

 

cool waters

splashing away

the heat of desire

Failed Haiku

Haku

        

                                 meadow grasses bent by the wind the purple plumes

                                                        

                                                              breathing in

                                                              the sharpness of autumn

                                                              no words spoken

Presence

The Country and Abroad

       

Haibun

Roots

 

                                                                                   two roads

                                                                                   reaching the same place

                                                                                   the choice is made

 

The local historical society hosts a tea in the patio of a grand estate. Seven hundred and twenty acres of land with a main house, three or four smaller houses for family members, various out-buildings, two ponds, gazebo, rose garden, hills, woods, fields stretching as far as the horizon. One family since 1700. Father to son, generation after generation of stability and commitment to a place.  I think of the homes I've had. East coast, West coast, Europe. Ten homes, averaging a move every seven or eight years.

 

                                                                                    trellised roses

                                                                                    an old thorn still lodged

                                                                                    in my thumb

Haibun Today

Haiku

 grapes ready to pick

cobwebs connecting bottles

in Gramps wine cellar

Under the Basho

 

The day is overcast and cool, a welcome change after four days of sun, sun, sun and high heat. I am back in Los Angeles after twenty years. The plan is to drive west to the Pacific Ocean. We start out at 10:00 a.m. Our route takes us to Hollywood and Highland, the entertainment center for Los Angeles, replacing Hollywood and Vine as the mecca for tourists.

 

Lines for movies, lines for coffee, lines for trendy shops, lines to cross the street, lines with no beginning or end. Weaving between the lines — people sauntering, hurrying, standing still to pose and gawk. A conglomeration of people. A Bruegel painting waiting to be put on canvas. Glamour and glitz.

Hollywood Boulevard

forward "into the breach"

to shoot a selfie

 

At La Brea we turn left, down one block, turn right. The Sunset Strip. The place to be at night. Comedy clubs, live music, restaurants, cafes, shops, hotels, apartment buildings, people. Always people, day and night.

 

We pass Whisky-A-Go-Go. A ghost memory from younger days, dark and sleeping on a Saturday morning.

 

come do the twist

cringing

at the thought

 

My eyes keep looking up, above the buildings. 

 

oversized billboards

tinsel town

in your face

 

What to see, where to go, what to buy. Signs that need no glasses to read. We reach Sierra Drive, leaving Los Angeles and enter Beverly Hills. Manicured and quiet. Mansions behind walls and high shrubbery, with the occasional glimpse of a house or garden. One hundred year old palm trees along the streets. No walkers. No parked cars, except for one. A garishly painted vehicle with a young man standing near it, waving and calling.

 

movie stars’ homes

get close and personal

with dots on a map

 

We continue along Sunset through Westwood, Brentwood, Pacific Palisades and reach Highway 1 and what I came to see . . . the Pacific Ocean.

 

low clouds

slate gray waves

shatter on the beach

 

surfs up!

Newton’s law proven

with a splash

World Haiku Review

  Autumn 2020 

 

 

Tanka Sequence

Holding On

warm Spanish nights

melodious and throbbing

with longing

for times calm and serene

when you and I loved

bustling paseos

filled with laughter and fragrance

hand in hand we strolled

free from worries and fear

and future disasters

memories flow

sustaining this aloneness

and isolation

prayers and hope for rescue

are the solace for this now

Red Lights

Haiga

Haiga: Black & White

Haigaonline

Haiku for summer

tea with a friend

the gray afternoon brightens

with Zoom

last book read

I fill a notebook

with doodles

constant motion

along the avenue—

another page turned

Frameless Sky

Femku

Femku

Haibun

       A SATURDAY AFTERNOON      

      

Sitting in the patio I watch a chipmunk explore the potted geraniums then move on, disappearing back into the growth of weeds and trees beyond the bricks. He reappears on the mowed grass, scurrying one way, then another, as if undecided.

                                                            quietly alone–

                                                            bird calls for company

                                                            and a soft breeze

                                                                  tomorrow will sort itself

                                                                   but now, this time is mine

Contemporary Haibun Online

Tanka

laughter

coming through open windows

wafting on a breeze

possibilities surface

in this time of waiting

Presence

Haibun

On Being Wise  

At my age I should know a few things. I do, but not enough to always be wise or to be certain. There are still choices to be made, pros and cons to be weighed, adjustment to and acceptance of whichever choice is made. Life is still a learning process.

                                                     heirloom roses

                                                     bringing back the bush

                                                     one bloom at a time

Cattails

Haiga for Covid-19

Black & White Haiga

Haibun

AT THE BEACH 

The wind picks up. We sit closer, wrap a blanket across our shoulders. Enough hot coffee in the thermos for a half cup each. His hand finds mine. I keep my eyes looking ahead to the horizon where ocean meets sky. Pink, rose, mauve, peach. Mustn't blink or turn away. Mustn't look into his eyes; I'll miss the sunset. I'll miss what we came for. Mustn't…

slow to star shine

sloshing waves bring the tide

and a warning

                                 

Contemporary Haibun Online

Tanka

I was young

hesitant to leave home

until you came

I grew into certainty

and the boldness of love

Tanka Origens

WHERE I GO WHEN STAYING AT HOME               

My deck is my transport. It awaits my boarding, weather permitting. Comfortable seating, in sun or shade, my choice. Snacks or full meals can be provided. Reading material is always provided, as well as pen and paper should I choose to read or write. Should I wish, I may watch the screen before me, the cranberry red Japanese maple trees and dark green, pink flowering bushes behind them, the containers of potted plants with their ochre, white and salmon colored blossoms. This show is accompanied by stereophonic sound. Various bird calls, soughing breezes, rustling leaves, gurgling water from the brook just beyond the trees encircle me, wrapping me in warm, comforting arms, and I am airborne to the destination of my choice.

The blue Aegean and white sands of Naxos, the slopes at Chamonix, a glaring white under the winter sun, the strong odors and raucous calls of vendors in the Grand Suk in Dubai, the plaintive Fado coming from a lone singer in an alley. Visions of memories and new, imaginative ones. I am in control. I am the pilot for this journey.

a summer day

at a yard sale

the years in review

a passing parade

now and then a memory

falls out of step

Heritage Hills Newsletter, July 2020

Haiga for Summer

 

Daily Haiga

Haibun

A WALK IN THE RAIN      

In spite of the weather forecast we continue as planned. A trek in a nature preserve, outfitted with boots, brimmed hats, slickers, walking sticks. We choose one of several trails.

a misty view

hand in hand we walk

the years 

The birds and insects are silent. Only the squish of our boots and the rain on trees, on the ground, on layers of decaying leaves. The melody changes as the rain subsides and increases.

late night radio

the same love song

with variations

Puddles form in low places and pools collect on large leaves and in a hollowed out tree where woodpeckers have been at work. In some spots, where the growth above us is thick, branches overlap to create a sheltering dry spot. We keep the silence, the mood expressed in our eyes, our smiles, our thoughts.

steady rain

washing away

the day’s debris

 World Haiku Review

Haiku for Spring

sleepless hours

learning the language of pines

sigh after sigh

perfumed breezes

shaking loose the moisture 

from peonies

outdoor cafe

no extra charge

for cherry blossoms

Chrysanthemum

Modern haiku

Heron's Nest

Haiga for Covid-19

Black & White Haiga
spring 2020

HAIBUN

NOTHING SACRED  

The Poulnabrone Dolmen, the Portal Tomb.  A six-foot high structure of two slender limestone portal stones supporting a 12 foot flat table-like capstone. High on a hill in The Burren in County Clare, Ireland.  The name means “hole of sorrows.”

Dating back from 4200 BC – 2900 BC, it is the sacred burial tomb of Celtic tribes. Silhouetted against the lowering sun, it is impressive, especially from a distance without tourists snapping pictures and where the restraining ropes are not visible.  They were put up to keep visitors from climbing on the top or chipping away at the pillars. 

I hang back from the group and look again.

six- foot cairn

whistling winds keep company

with the dead

LYNX

Haibun

A CALIFORNIA MEMORY

 A drive up Route 99 (now I-5), a portion of which is known as The Grapevine for its twists and curves. It is early morning in late July. Already hot at 8:00 a.m. The Bug’s water-cooled engine keeps chugging by stalled cars, the same cars which passed us earlier.

windows down

the swoosh of warm air 

muffles our laughter

We stop at Castaic Junction for coffee and donuts, then turn westward toward Santa Paula.  Avocado, walnut and citrus trees in neat rows, blossoms on some, fruit on others.

honey bees

working the orange groves

braceros in straw hats

We continue to climb and reach the crest overlooking the Ojai Valley, named by the Chumash Indians, meaning the Valley of the Moon.  Just before descending we find, tucked in between orange groves, a small Italian market and pizzeria.  We sit in the shade of olive trees and order pizza.  The patrone, an old Italian man from Sicily, upon learning that I am part Sicilian, joins us outside, carrying a bottle of home-made wine hidden in a towel because he has no liquor license.

Down below, in Ojai, the temperature is nearing 100 degrees.  We browse the shops, staying in the shade of the arcaded streets.  Continuing onward and upward, out of Ojai on route 378 to the Los Padres National Forest.  The ground parched and cracked.  Sage and manzanita more abundant.  Chaparral and scrub oak.  Posted in a low spot a sign:  SUBJECT TO FLASH FLOODS.

cerulean blue sky

looking up when we cross

a dried-up stream

We reach Lake-of-the-Woods, a developer’s dream in the 1930s which never materialized.  A man-made lake, never filled, and cottages, never built.  Now, just a sunken dust-blown area where the lake was intended. A small settlement with a few houses scattered here and there in the pines and up dirt roads.

Above Lake-of-the-Woods is the pine and oak studded Mt. Pinos, popular for skiing and hiking.  I gather pinecones to save for holiday decorations, needing to venture only a few steps in either direction to have a full bag.

sticky pine sap

suddenly I have

a green thumb

funneling dust

the fragrance of resin

on my clothes

We return down through Lake-of-the-Woods and eastward through Frazier Park back to highway 99, south down the Grapevine and home to Los Angeles.  

a cool shower

washing down the dust

with gin and tonic

Bottle Rockets

Haiga

Black & White Haiga, May 2020

Haibun

THE NEW NORMAL   

The Apocalypse, Armageddon, Dystopia. The stuff of sci-fi and fantasy movies. Drastic scenarios of the imagination. 

Never to happen, never to come even close, never to nip at the fringes. Never say never. Attributed by some to Charles Dickens in Pickwick Papers. 

Never say never, because the beast is nibbling now, not the beast of the Black Death that plagued the globe in the mid-1300 hundreds. A smaller beast, not as ravenous, but cunning in its disguise, hiding behind a neighbor, a friend, a loved one. 

During the Black Death those who could left cities. 

social distancing

she and hubby converse

with texting

Streets emptied. Shops closed. Food was in short supply. People prayed for a miracle

for once, quick parking

leaving the market

with an empty cart

 Seven centuries later we wait for our miracle, a vaccine. In the meantime, we use technology and click, click our order; our children continue school; we communicate. All because of technology, a miracle of sorts, considering how people communicated during the Black Death. 

We do have spring slowly making her appearance, although we may not be noticing her. She comes in spurts and sprints, but she comes, stays a while and disappears.  Patience required. Patience in all things.

schedules we keep

each to its own time

emerging plants

morning coffee

fidgeting while waiting

for the pot to fill

Drifting Sands