Haiga

Lynx

Haiku sequence

 Summer Storm

a quarrel

storm clouds

wipe the sky gray

distant thunder

the lingering echo

of voices

summer downpour

the smell of wet ashes

in the fireplace

a blast of wind

banging the gate shut

remembered shouts

a creeping dampness

we drink cinnamon tea

in china cups

a shared peace

between rolls of thunder

waiting out the rain

Cyclamens & Swords

Senryu

 Rock and Roll

rock around the clock

the new baby

finally sleeps

after the quarrel

the sound

of silence

a homeless man

asleep in the doorway

walk on by

not his wife's lipstick

on his shirt

bad moon rising

two hours late

to get to work

it's the same old song

Failed Haiku

Rock & Roll issue

Haibun

                                           

                                                  

                                                    Breathless 

 

Albuquerque, New Mexico  to Santa Fe on the Turquoise Trail. Tan to orange to red colored dirt. A cloudless sky and increasing heat. Pinyon pines, short bush-like trees, give little shade.

 

Many stops along the way to take photos. I am short of breath because of the altitude and can’t walk far. 

 

                                             shifting landmarks

                                             tumbleweed and sagebrush

                                             caught by the wind

 

Lunch in Madrid, (emphasis on the first syllable). Once a coal mining town, now an artists’ community where painters, sculptors, potters, jewelers, and weavers sell their works.  

 

                                               turquoise

                                               the jeweled color

                                               of a desert sky

 

In Santa Fe, a small adobe house, a casita, is home for the week. Comfortable and tastefully furnished with antiques and replicas. We eat the local food and drink Margueritas.

 

                                                   Happy Hour—

                                                   a shaded lounge chair

                                                   and a cooling breeze

 

Everywhere are adobe buildings in the pueblo style, from light beige to reddish brown, from down in the Plaza to up in the hills.  

 

                                                   a private garden

                                                   behind adobe walls

                                                   what the birds see

 

                                                    a blue door

                                                    in an adobe wall

                                                    desert sky and sand

 

An hour away is Taos Pueblo. It’s closed because of Covid and remains on my wish list for another lifetime. Have lunch in the Plaza and are on the road again, heading southwest of Taos to the area that inspired Georgia O’Keeffe.  Many stops to take pictures and visualize a painting.

                                                     rock formations  

                                                     changing shapes

                                                     in the blink of an eon

 

No cars on the road. No one about.  Yet there are signs that people live here. A signpost with a name. Wire fences. A gate. A life decreed by family heritage and love of the land or by circumstance? I see both its attractions and deterrents.

 

                                                        open range—

                                                        rumbling over the cattle guard

                                                        on a dirt road 

 

                                                        the hot wind—

                                                        in the scrub oak’s shadow

                                                        a few cows 

 

Finally. . .  Abiquiu, a village built on the ruins of a Tewa pueblo.  Tea at the inn before heading to the Ghost Ranch, Georgia O’Keeffe’s studio.

                                                      layers of colored rock

                                                      the many stories

                                                      the old people tell

                                                        the wide sky

                                                        breathless and silent

                                                        I hear the past

 

                                                    

Drifting Sands------