Haiga

 sloshing rain

ten minutes with the TV

on mute

Tewceni Haiku

Haibun

THE FIRST SNOW

 

The Christmas season.  Our three young children are anticipating their first encounter with snow. On a narrow side street in Geneva in front of a small market we see a few pine trees.  None is over four feet or very full.  Still, they are real trees and fragrant.  We pick out the fullest and most evenly formed and carry it the four blocks to our apartment.  With no working elevator, my husband and I and the children hoist the tree up the five flights of stairs.  Next the ornaments.  Not the glittery glow of our usual ornaments which are in storage, but candy canes, paper snowflakes, paper chains and popcorn strings.  

 

watching my children

catch snow on their tongues

better than memories

 

Contemporary Haibun On-line 

Tanka

more snow

filling the feeder

in the numbing cold

I ask myself, why do I

take on more obligations?

Treveni 

 

Haiga

Haigaonline
 

Haibun

THE SIMPLE LIFE  

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 

 

Haiku sequence

 THANKSGIVING

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

Haiga

 Kernels

Haibun

 DOMINICA

 

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–

            poinsettias,

            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

 

Presence

Tanka

 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

Treveni

Haiga

Daily Haiga
 

Senryu

 slow freight

the fun of counting

long since gone

Cattails

Haibun

THE DINNER PARTY   

 

 

1. Getting Ready

 

Mrs. Fraser is getting ready for dinner. A party of twelve. Very special (as always), designed to impress Mr. Fraser's colleagues and their wives.

 

A black velvet dress clings to her slim figure. Diamond earrings and necklace.  Silver hair, coiffed in an up-do only her hairdresser can accomplish. She's almost ready.

 

From a dresser drawer, hidden in her silk lingerie, Mrs. Fraser takes out a silver flask and swallows long and slowly.  The liquid fires up her throat and her nerve.

 

a lone walker–

the night blooming jasmine

cast in shadow

 

2. The Dinner

 

Crystal glasses, English china, Belgian lace. A table set for royalty. Mrs. Fraser longingly gazes out the window. A summer night cries out for a barbeque, not caviar and squab; beer not Verve Clicquot.

 

On her right is Mrs. Henry.

 

Your grandson?  Precocious is he? Toilet trained in one week you say? Remarkable! Did you notify The Times?  Yes, I'm joking. Of course I'm joking. 

 

On her left is Judson Parker. She kicks his creeping foot away from hers.

 

Yes, I agree. Desperate hunger in the world. Should all do our part.  I'll start now and pack up this dinner for the Homeless Mission downtown. What's that you say? A joke, yes. Just a joke.

 

bouquet of roses

silky petals

fall with a touch

 

3. Saying Good-bye

 

Goodnight. Goodnight. Thank you. Lovely to see you.  Next week at the Henderson's? Can't wait to see their infinity pool. A restful view, I'm sure. Perhaps, I'll jump in and disappear into infinity. Yes. Yes. Another joke.

 

night voices

rumbles of thunder

before the deluge

 

4. Lights Out

 

Midnight. The house locked down. One more successful dinner. One more gold star.  

 

Mrs. Fraser takes out the flask again and places a bottle of pills next to it.  She lines up the pills on her dresser. With slow deliberation her hand moves from pill to mouth to flask, from pill to mouth to flask, from pill to mouth to flask.

 

storm brewing

an owl's call

thrown to the wind

Modern Haiku

 

Haiku

 rain at dusk

the slanted scent

of baking apples

Herons Nest

Haiga

Wales Haiku
 

Haiku

 summer heat

in the folds of  rose

a drop of moisture

New Resonance 3

Haiku

 pond willows

a slight movement

in the algae

AHG

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------

Haiku Sequence

 Demolition Day

still seeing curtains

starched and blowing

the boarded windows

littered asphalt

the blue-white hydrangeas

just a memory

waves of dust rise

with the crumbling house—

faded snapshots

"I'm home. I''m home"

a child calls from down the street

I look back

Bottle Rockets

Haibun

                                                                           . . .and the living is easy   

 

It’s summer. Birds are pecking at the feeder and suet cage. Chickadees, sparrows, cardinals, woodpeckers, juncos, finches. They chase each other away—bullies with wings. There’s no need to provide food for them now, but I like to watch them.  There are seeds, insects, berries and worms aplenty in the wooded areas around my condo. They have learned where food is readily available. Freeloaders! The whole lot of them.

 

                                                              “Pick Your Own Berries”

                                                               I buy a  basket 

                                                               filled by the farmer

Contemporary Haibun Online 

Haiga

CHO

Tanka

 the sky above

between eastern mountains

and the western ocean

from brush  fires and sunset

the same red

Red Lights

Tanka

 a soft breeze

carrying a faint sweetness

I think of you

as you tend the roses

you so loved

Moonbathing

Tanka Prose

THE DIG   

Day 1:

 

An orange earth digger, jack hammers, men with shovels in yellow vests and hard hats —all here to replace a faulty water line. Get my car out of my garage and park in the visitors’ parking, I’m advised. No need. Decide to cancel plans made earlier. Will go out tomorrow.  Bad decision, that.  As holes gets deeper, dirt mounds get higher. No way into my condo, no way out.  After some hand wringing, a path is cleared. Can now get to mailbox across the road. However, there is no mail because the mail truck cannot get past the equipment and barricades.  At the end of the day, a gaping hole at the bottom of my driveway covered over with a flimsy board and blocked by orange and white bars attached to orange cones.  Oh, my! How they do love orange.

 

lives lived,

long before memory,

deeply buried

till a random hoe or spade

frees a shard of mystery

 

Day 2:

 

More digging. A new area under my window. Out comes the grass. Out comes the spirea bush. Out come my white lilies which took two years to bloom. I look down and see only a hard hat. China appears to be the destination.  The earth digger extends its teeth, bites into new territory,  chews its way along the road past the next condo unit. Clunk, clunk. clunk. The show is only minimally mesmerizing. Time for a relaxing cup of herbal tea. Choking sounds from the faucet. Water has been turned off. Fortunately, I have a kettle full of water. With my tea and a book, I retreat to the living room and a comfy chair away from the clunking of the earth digger.  At the end of the day, there are two deep craters and a long trench, but I have water.

 

digging through time

finding bits of this and that

trash and treasures

writing tales of how it was,

how we think the pieces fit

Day 3

 

The  hole under my window is filled in. The hard hats move down along the trench. The earth digger returns to crater number one. It gets wider, deeper. A workman tells me water will be off.  I fill the kettle.  I will have my tea.  Didn’t think about the cleaning woman due in a couple of hours.  Should have filled buckets. She arrives, having walked from visitors’ parking.  Turns on faucet. Sputters. Spits. Hisses. Water still off.  Just dust and vacuum I tell her.  She takes two buckets and talks to the hard hats. One stalwart fellow leaps the trench, takes the buckets and goes down the road,  past the trench, and returns with water.  Cleaning of my condo continues. Meanwhile, hard hats take a lunch break. Begin to wonder how long will my driveway end at the lip of a canyon. Begin to wonder if I should send out a SOS to my family.  Three o’clock. Hard hats have been moving rapidly this past hour.  No need to alert family. The driveway crater is filled and dirt leveled. I can take my car out. The trench under my window is covered with boards and marked with orange cones.  Piles of rocks are loaded into a truck and hauled away. The earth digger is parked and the road is quiet. 

 

tagged and labeled

each item in a ledger

nothing left ignored

history in a  bowl,

a trinket or a cup

 

Day 4

 

All quiet on the cul-de-sac. No earth digger, no hard hats. Nothing. Nada. The dig is a work in progress, and progress is slow.

 

showcased in museums

photographed and discussed

the past brought forward

to question and to learn

and find a better way

Cattails June 2023