first light
a strand of her hair
between my lips
Month: May 2017
home alone
the teapot whistles
a single note
late again
a dozen roses
all alike
(Originally published in Modern Haiku, 40.3)
wildflowers
never make
promises
regrets
the way snow gathers
in pine boughs
where is the spring
to lift this weight?
my father?s country–
each year he goes home
for the last time
(haiga)
the setting sun
floods potato fields
with crimson
a migrant looks up
at geese flying south
unpacked box
on the kitchen table—
foreign headlines
tears
when
we
have
to
leave
your
height
chart
on
the
door
jamb
waiting for a call
from the son who never calls ?
Mother’s Day
“The Look,” a haibun by Kala Ramesh
a good chance
she’ll change her mind ?
sunshowers
the now she returns to dementia
steam rising
through a band of light
winter tea
breaking into
an abandoned house
January wind
in foreclosure
the dream house
we didn’t buy
business lunch
the dialogues
unspoken
after the protest
moonlight on empty
tear-gas canisters
sickle day moon
boys from the county lockup
cut highway grass
pit stop
we water the roadside
flowers
remembrance day
the gate clangs
against its lock
a broken tooth
yet he sees the young girl
naked before him
smiling a wide smile
as she was at twenty
(Included in A Gift of Tanka, AHA Books, 1990)
on the mend . . .
this long afternoon
stitched by swallows