haiku – tinywords

blue light from the laptop’s screen– a break in the clouds

Haibun for Bill Higginson

I started publishing haiku in 2000, before I really even knew what it was. I found poems that I liked in a book and started sending them to a mailing list, to friends’

alone in the library I open to autumn

Roosevelt Island the ruins of the hospital touched by graffiti

california sunrise traffic in the canyon begins to stall

in one breath the whole autumn

a thousand dreams yet, this one — ashes in the breeze

strip mall a wild turkey pecks at a hubcap

fall migration the growing flock of binoculars

first stars . . . the timer turns on the X-mas lights

autumn wind — looking up for a fly ball lost in falling leaves

doesn’t matter where I’m going — autumn wind

scattered leaves — two guitar picks on the blues man’s headstone

watching dad struggle to remember our names december sky

a leaf’s skeleton tossed by the wind — those moments when laughter filled the garden

autumn sunlight the old dog unearths her favorite toy

christmas lights . . . the ambulance flashing in all the windows

through autumn leaves a teal-trailed wake of light

toll booth lit for Christmas — from my hand to hers warm change

old snow the streetwalker gives Santa a hug

autumn cascade — in and out of the foam a plastic bottle

bow, if you will marigold’s blossoms dried brown

late autumn walk the many paths I could have taken

in the air rain in the rain air

quiet morning the continuous beeping of an auto alarm

dew frost ~ the horse shivers off crystal light

with a crooked branch I knock the last leaf off the tree winter nightfall

no more bread– I’m a shovel in the hand of winter

early light my dream drifts out the open window

silent snow the coldness between us

surprise party i hang my toupee on the hat rack

whirling snow divorce papers fall from a red folder

everything for nothing: job offer

thunder interrupting thunder

footprints the hollow boom of breakers in the fog

outside the bar men like broken houses

low evening fog — I walk no dog

winter stars without you to name them

park bench the blind man’s glasses reflect the sunlight

between the falling snow raven

the light in the back of the flower shop winter moon

winter dusk when dad would phone

burnt toast no matter what I do the rain seeps in

snow all night the silence thickens

washing up she looks at the backyard pine its old nest

winter mist the scarecrow’s heart a nesting sparrow

the first brush-stroke black the sound of thunder

desert morning a coyote licks ice on the tumbleweed

elevator silence our shadows cross on the floor

deep snow — I put my feet in your footsteps

so like bones the bone-white branches of the birch tree

casino lights your bad luck ringing all their bells

cold morning touching my breasts remembering

traffic jam — from everywhere the snow heading nowhere

3 a.m. the dog fetches yet another stick

haiku history lecture doodling paper lanterns

butterfly — the way you leave and come back

spring is coming one door of the deli is open

Street vendors selling flowers for other men’s wives

day at the park picnic blankets blanketed with cherry blossoms

first thaw pink petals in the elevator

sprouting grasses — deleting the contacts i never call

I pause to watch the moon riding the clouds the boy tugs my hand

row houses wear tinfoiled windows blind to spring

green tractor plowing drags over black furrows a lace scarf of gulls

riverside wedding — the flower girl picks a dandelion

low tide . . . river mud glistens pink in the setting sun

On a bed of leaves, a deer skeleton picked clean, save one furry hoof.

covered with blossoms a business card floats on the pond

in between the notes heartbeats so loud

snatched by the wind, my check zips past the daffodils — I almost let it go

in an old car an old man and an old dog

remission — in the rear-view the crow settles back on the roadkill

the hem of my dress too wet for the wind

the lie i almost tell bruised ginger

stars clearly aware

Clouds building outside Heralding a thunderstorm My cube grows smaller

the wind howling horizon on a wave

Hidden by the fog, mockingbirds and wrens sing maps outlining the trees.

morning coffee one bare foot under another

empty tree — except one nest

almost there would be a gas station

summer T-ball — between batters outfielders chase butterflies

sunday line of parking meters all EXPIRED

sunrise— all at once birds leap from the water

free from school the chalk dances across the sidewalk

summer at last I blow away a grey hair from my keyboard

thick stump an ant crosses the growth rings into my childhood

new moon last year’s kite slumped in the corner

museum hall children study their echoes

fading tattoos he hauls her wheelchair from the beach

old pond— a crab sneaking into the sunken sneaker

leaf shadows spatter my skin this heat

wood’s edge— stepping inside the sound of river

mockingbird an octave shy of the moon

war ruins… suddenly the cicadas stop

Cigarette smoke curls against the white moon.

father-daughter talk my fishing lure caught in the moon

something less than the speed of light camellia blossoms

the junkyard crane grabs another car— wind-tossed poppies

laundry in the garden the colorful dresses full of butterflies

rising from prayer i find myself in tourist photographs

a row of white houses across the bay the glint of binoculars

bush track and mountains all I can see is one horse fly

between roots a woodchuck gathering sun

a beach day like any other until she unwinds the ties of her bikini

The sky darkens The ocean replies

Falling rain, the priest kneels before an empty altar.

towpath— a blue heron shifts the twilight

seaside rest home the gentle swell of his belly

over my thoughts the hush of pines

Her last summer each day brings a new flower

workday’s end a construction worker pees into the summer sun

cobwebs fill the curve of the snow shovel

dropping my dog off at the kennel her whine amid all the barks

after the hurricane only the moon

last day of vacation— the blackberries won’t let me go

cloudy day I wave at the neighbors I don’t know

a spider on the floor tile— checkmate

daughter and mother the same hard face