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