Saturday, December 9, 2023


more snow
filling the feeder
in the numbing cold
I ask myself, why do I
take on more obligations?


Friday, December 1, 2023

Saturday, November 25, 2023



an ekphrastic haibun

August Renoir, Gabrielle, Arising, c. 1909


Early morning and a woman arises from her bed. She is not a wealthy woman. No one attends her. No morning coffee placed on a bedside table to ease her into the day. No warm bath, perfumed with rose water.


She rises quickly, slips off her night dress. Naked, she reaches for her skirt


She is a healthy woman with ample hips and a slight bulge in her stomach, perhaps from having a child. What cares she for cellulite, firm abs or slender thighs and small hips? She knows nothing about fitness training or jogging or dieting. 


She has her husband and her child. She has her place.


the silver dawn

rising with the cock

the babe’s cry

Chrysanthemum October 2023 


Friday, November 17, 2023

Haiku sequence


wild turkeys
strut across the road
nobody's dinner

Thanksgiving Eve
pies on the counter
legs on a pillow

Thanksgiving walk
shifting the turkey
before dessert
Heritage Hills Newsletter

Thursday, November 9, 2023



Wednesday, November 1, 2023




January 28, our anniversary and our first trip to the Caribbean.  Quiet is what we want.  Sea, sand, rain forest, the absence of a heavy tourist trade.  Dominica is the choice.


            rolling thunderheads

            flying into the black sky,

            eyes shut


A stop at Guadeloupe, then onto Dominica.  A rainbow straddles the airfield.  Zig-zagging through muddy puddles we reach the terminal.  The building- old and run down, no more than a shed.  Heat and humidity like an envelope sealing us inside.


The island, named by Columbus who discovered it on a Sunday, is 24 miles of lush tropics, dotted with waterfalls and crisscrossed with rivers and rutted roads, only a car and a half wide with ditches on either side.  With one hand on the horn and the other out the window, our taxi driver plays chicken with oncoming traffic.


            wheels hugging a ditch–


            now within reach


The Anchorage Hotel, unpretentious, but serviceable.  Lounge and dining room open to the sea view and breezes, tall drinks at the bar and a room with a balcony ten feet from the waves–the only amenities that count.


The town, Roseau, the island's capitol.  Balconied buildings once colorfully painted in pastel shades, now mostly peeling. We change money at the bank, staffed with courteous women, all young and dressed alike in pink dresses with gingham trim.  Other working women in the shops and offices wearing similarly styled dresses in different pale shades of  blue or green.  All speak English with a British accent or a French patois among themselves.


Wonderfully refreshing grapefruit juice for breakfast, or at cocktail time with the addition of pineapple juice and a shot of rum.  There are grapefruit groves all over the island.  Coconut groves as well.   Men often working in them, heard but unseen.  Not unusual to have young men suddenly appear on the road wearing dread locks and carrying a machete.  A bit frightening at first, until they smile and wave.


            with one whack,

            splitting the coconut

            gleaming white teeth


We drive into the blue-green mountains.  Mists rising below; rain showers ahead.  We trek upward toward Trefalgar Falls, following the increasing roar, ignoring the unknown snap and  swish of the thick brush.  A sudden clearing of the clouds and we arrive


            speechless at the falls–

            rainbows splash into

            the Emerald Pool


That night, a Mardi Gras party at the hotel next to ours: barbeque, a beauty contest and dancing well into the late hours. The next day–our last– rain showers again.  Sleep late in the morning, then in the afternoon


            on the balcony,

            waiting out the showers

            with a cold beer



Wednesday, October 25, 2023


 my perfect garden
til a deer and her fawn
nibble on the hosts:
the flash of anger gone
when they turn and look at me