Category: Issue 13.3

Hello and welcome to the newest issue of t i n y w o r d s, which we are happy to present to you with the help of a wide range of poets hailing from Canada to Sweden, India to

autumn morning
the smell of fresh rain
in my coffee

autumn chill
 harbor seals
  crowd a buoy

campaign sign
the dog registers
his opinion

(Haiku News, Vol. 1 No. 44, Nov. 12, 2012)

frost night
so many
last breaths

Indian summer —
stepping into the path
of her perfume

rest stop
after 90 miles of desert
the way green feels

roadside perch the hitchhiker’s distant stare

driftwood
we discuss
our origins

reunion dinner
saying hello
to old habits

homebound ferry
thoughts zigzagging
with the terns

line in the sand
another wave shows me
the way things are

seen through a reef shark my dependency

windswept dunes
the difference between
wants and needs

a river behind the graveyard forget-me-nots

Normandy Beach the screams of gulls

the shape
of my sadness
like a cloud drifting
fraying, taking form again
oh, but I love this life

(red lights Vol. 9, No. 2)

3/4 moon
clouds move
in waltz time

in the moment
a faceless clock
on the mantle

still day…
a dry leaf breaks free
from the sycamore

deep autumn
all the tree tops
full of sky

hunter’s moon
the old tabby
refuses to come in

moving sale …
among the bric-a-brac
the owner’s dog

in a shoebox
all the candles
of uncelebrated birthdays

at the bottom
of the discard pile
Books to Keep

years since I’ve
thought about heaven–
the rusted hinge

Christmas Eve-
the sound of one star
blinking

time to burn
the whole candle
holidays

I am a moth too
in the face of light

meditation bell
even the starlings
are silenced

day long drizzle —
in the mailbox
one windowed envelope

full-bodied rain
the wine tasting
winds down

hanging in my closet the person I used to be

Zen garden
the tourist dips his toe
in the gravel

wind chimes
the gentle rain
he would have loved

lost
in my own world
ground fog

bark beetles
in the Ponderosa pine
these gnawing doubts

where forest was
the old map is thick
with dust

New sheets.
I remember
your hands.

I always thought
mother’s silk pillow cases
a luxury
now that they are mine I dream
silk worms threading light to light

stone
by stone, the river
widens

moon bridge
the wide mouth
of a silver koi

a shivering moon
in the kayak’s wake
wood ducks resettle

obedience school
for the dog
for me

finally
it finds a home
this feral cat
my son brings home
to bury

wildflower . . .
not needing to know
its name

dandelions
all over
again

cowbells . . .
the pasture view
never the same

Siesta

Half-sunk in the undergrowth, an abandoned bamboo swing. Perched atop, a sparrow couple in disagreement about whether to set up their nest here or not. The

a lily’s chalice
brimmed
with the empty sky

as she turns to leave
my mother’s
girlish smile

(originally appeared in Valley Micropress (NZ), June, 2010)

apple slices—
our last words
in the knife’s blade

night shade i close my eyes and disappear

my childhood
is buried in this body —
a flock of whispers,
a sheaf
of pleasant voices

a lecture
on the paranormal . . .
a faint whiff of sulphur

empty house
the deaths hiding
in the clock

there is nothing to do but keep still howling wind

the priest
motions a blessing
aftermath

summer haze
the lost timbre
of dad’s voice

canning day
apple peels quilt
the table top

hunger moon
a tuft of rabbit fur
on a wire fence

reheating
last night’s soup
our long marriage

hailstones
in the attic the patter
of mice

Gita chanting —
as each stanza ends
the bell