Category: Issue 16.2

 

ascension —
sunlight through the wings
of the shad fly

 

 

one cicada becoming another deep summer

 

 

leaf among leaves —
what the moment
is

 

 

 

(originally appeared in Not Asking What If, Muse Pies Press, 2016)

inside the body
of a bird the song
opens
in my life how can there be
a summer’s end

 

as if lost
it wanders through the canyon—
autumn wind

on canyon walls, red shadows of ancient ancestors—I take your hand

 

rock walls the river shapes no designated god

 

river depths
an osprey clutches
water

 

fish ladder that jump the heart makes

 

 

 

(originally appeared in Failed Haiku, an online journal of senryu, May 2016)

 

in a dream
the apology
I never gave

 

Ex Officio

 

You were sitting beside me in the law school corridor young again, as vivid as your infamous blue eyes. Mark, I wanted to say, we’ve been divorced

 

thick dust
the life we lived
in other rooms

emptying her house
all our resentments
packed away

 

 

she swings her cane
as if it could cut
flowers she planted
and now cannot name . . .
inside, a cousin seals another box

 

showing my daughter
how to cartwheel
Indian Summer

drying laundry —
the faded colors
of twilight

 

after sunset
mountains become the sky
a muezzin’s call

 

 

 

(originally appeared in Frogpond 38:3., Autumn 2015)

lifting my gaze
to the last of the light
chickadee song

 

the blue pine’s
gnarled roots —
autumn loneliness

hunter’s moon darting through the forest pines

 

burning bush
what to become
when I’m old

B positive
even my blood type
full of advice

 

 

 

(originally appeared in Modern Haiku, 45:3)

advised
to deadhead the columbine
I hesitate
recalling cutting remarks
never forced me to bloom

 

moonlight thinned to a single strand–

                                         and still no word

 

 

 

 

(originally appeared in Not Asking What If, Muse-Pie Press, 2016)

ball four
a pop can snaps
& hisses

 

 

traffic stop
the neon buddha tries to claim
diplomatic immunity

 

stop light
a beggar feeds
on traffic

Upset over news
of refugees fleeing
war and poverty
I create one more
wiping away the spider’s web

 

 

 

(originally appeared in What Light There

night of ghosts
bumping in the bare branches
the lost kite

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Included in A Dictionary of Haiku, AHA Books; 2nd Edition, 1993-2013)

on the battered pier
old men
fishing for ghosts

frost in the air …
this urge to rake again
the ashes of autumn

 

 

history hobbling across the cobblestones

 

 

 

Going online
to hear the hermit thrush sing –
why
it no longer comes to this hill
one sad reason or another

 

everything
the mockingbird says
with its tail

 

 

election day
kids in the schoolyard
playing tag

 

 

first kite
learning to read
the wind

 

boundary fence
the sunrise snags
on barbed wire

Ceasefire

Yesterday, it was a grenade that refused to go off. Today, it’s the shaggy dog we have often seen across the border howling into the thin night air.

November fog
in the crowd an old friend
without a name

 

first light
touching the arm
of the housebuilder

 

 

 

Elegant Lady

A splash of sun on the other side of barb wire. My neighbor’s peaches are ripe! I hear the thump of stilts; the chatter of pickers as the pouches

 

twilight
blackberries stain
the beard of a goat

 

rain puddling
in the hollow of a salt lick
the cow’s rough tongue

 

tea cools
the conversation
heats up

 

 

meaning what i don’t say ellipsis

 

 

 

wordless
i fill in the blanks
with wildflowers

 

sunlight glistens
on a small blade of grass
each poet
passes along the fire
in dew drops winking

 

 

(Included in A Gift of Tanka, AHA Books, 1990)

the whole day
how to write it…
hummingbird hawk moth

 

 

(Included in Beyond My View, Endion Press, 2011)

first encounter
a glasswing enters
our renku

regardless of its name ditch lily

 

one way
or the other…
sunflowers

 

an ice cream cone
shaped by her tongue
sultry evening

 

the touch before we part mimosa leaf

 

night pond –
the Big Dipper full
of leaves

 

 

 

(originally appeared in Cattails, May 2016)

 

early frost
our first fight
over nothing

 

Climate Change

In winter, my father climbed our steeply pitched roof with a shovel, almost as dexterous as a goat. We kids dug endless marble tunnels warm as igloos

skipping stones…
the weight
of father’s words

 

getting bigger
the hole
in my story

 

after the monsoon
a light rain
apology

 

liquid sun our glasses filled with dandelion wine

 

the wine
opening up
our conversation

 

 

“I’m married …”
ice cubes shifting
in her wine glass

 

 

3 minutes to midnight…
the barkeep tends
to emptiness

switchback . . .
adding another stone
to the cairn

 

 

its name painted out
the ghost town
water tower

 

 

deep winter
a boy in the fountain
collecting wishes

music
how it gathers
the lonely

 

 

 

(Included in A Dictionary of Haiku, AHA Books, 2nd ed., 1993-2013)

Lilies of the field —
what the world calls
doing nothing

new wellies
Christopher Robin
tags along

 

 

bike rental
I pedal my way
back to childhood

 

 

the part of
   town th
    at us
      ed to
        be h
          er
        e

 

winter beach
wave after wave
of memory

 

beach littered with shells
the ocean whispers
in vitro

final prognosis different clouds on the horizon

 

mourning
no one else
at the all-way stop

birthday cake
a slice for everyone
in the hospice

summer picnic
the ants start
with dessert

 

Hanoi Warms Up

 

Early one morning I circle Hoan Kiem Lake (“Lake of the Restored Sword”) in Old Hanoi. The lake is a rich jungly green. In its centre

the hammock
back in shape
summer’s end

 

dark passage the winter inside me

barefoot on linoleum
the moonlit square
even colder

snow
the city
in quiet chaos

snowbound . . .
down to the last cup
of birdseed

river’s edge
around the merganser’s body
ice thickening

April snowflakes
rearrange hometown memories
in the lineup
I wait for a brand new
permanent resident card

the cat not home . . .
apple blossoms
falling

blossoms . . .
the dog leap-curves
toward the frisbee

 

 

 

(originally published in Frogpond,Vol. XXX, No. 2, 2007)

deep breathing —
i drift by
the flower kiosk

museum of fine art boxcars

art studio
an empty frame
frames an empty frame

 

had i stayed
where i started
clear sky

 

if only
happiness were easy
paper flowers
rearranged
in a waterless vase

 

drought the struggle legible in leaves

 

day moon
a world about
its business

 

spare change
found in his pockets . . .
this too short life

closing time
a stepladder holds
the last light