Category: Issue 13.1

We asked for your input and you sure gave it to us. Within a short time period you shared more than 200 responses to our photo prompt.

It really was a flurry of words. Thanks.

small town
one red light
Valentine’s Day

after the solstice
waiting for the light
to change

 

war memorial
the unhistoric fights
I fought

winter chill
wearing her grandson’s coat
at the graveside

 

 

 

(originally appeared in “Scent of Rain,” the 2011 Southern California

winter stars . . .
the name of my father
of my father’s father

 

highway markers
how quickly the future
blurs into the past

biopsy i am my heartbeat

cold moon . . .
my mother goes
to voicemail

our memories of him
so very different
swirling snowflakes

frozen lake —
her intentions
not so transparent

winter dream—
the pond’s breath trapped
in ice

shorter days . . .
wizened grapes
cling to the vine

 

 

 

(Originally published in A Hundred Gourds, June 2012)

Monday Morning Coffee Break

(Addis Ababa, Ethiopia)

A barefoot man with ropes slung over his shoulders and a long-handled axe in his belt scoots up a eucalypt, tearing

two baristas
deconstruct their boyfriends
all night rain

cold winter rain
the swollen creek also
rushing home

leaf in the wind . . .
for one breath I imagine
an end like this

reminding myself
this isn’t the first sunrise
she didn’t see —
just the first we saw
without her

Kesennuma
among the sunlit wrecks
the sounds of gulls

 

 

 

(originally from the 17th International “Kusamakura” Haiku Competition

outgoing tide
the old sailor’s gaze
moves inward

bitter wind
the smell of honey
in the empty hive

wild strands
blown from an empty nest
I grow my hair long again

November walk —
settling for what’s left
of the bittersweet

 

 

 

(2nd Place Winner of the 2012 Robert Frost International Poetry Contest)

barely
longer than a cardinal’s call . . .
winter haiku

butterfly
under her skin
the ink takes shape

spring winds —
knowing just how
to touch you

unable to help myself rip tide

day moon —
the poem sounded better
last night

 

 

 

(originally published in ko 27.4, autumn-winter 2012)

autumn mist as far as roads will reach

morning walk —
wrapped and unwrapped
by the fog

at
the
deep
end
of
the
sky
prairie

 

late afternoon
each tombstone
in its neighbor’s shadow

the creek
where she was baptized
sun after rain

season opener
I wheel my father
into the shade

baseball in the distance
a metronome keeping
the slow time of summer

still some swagger
in his white linen trousers
the summer wind

no fences . . .
the spirit of a wild horse
in the gusting wind

old carousel horse
a gleam of wildness
in the painted eye

grass blades
edged with frost
his apology

snowflakes all the places she was childless

gathering
dark-red roses
I trim the thorns
cutting off regrets
before a petal falls

still life class
she pours her heart
into the skeleton

clinging to work
clinging to home
cicadas

unexpectedly warm
I take off my summer jacket
feeling as if
I were back
in Saigon

ghetto building
in every window
the rest of the world

ghetto building
in every window
the rest of the world

Old men in a park
bitching about the world.
A little kid beside
dances to no music.

 

city loneliness
a sparrow drops
into its shadow

in this white hour
between deep night and dawn
even the wren stares

planting delphiniums
in dark soil —
the taste of rain water

foot massage
the creek gurgles
between my toes

this April morning
even the fly
primps and preens

what the crows are doing
louder and more important

our marriage
or what’s left of it . . .
fireflies

spring blues–
the flower notes
in my tea

prom night
a petal clings
to the strawberry

moonlight—
trying not to analyze
the kiss