perched
at the tip
of summer
red-winged
blackbird
Tag: haiku
garden hose a silver arc reaches the last cabbage
box spring
new sheets
old lovers
in the park
pigeons peck in front of
empty benches
white water rafting
we spin around
our laughter
Previously published in Mayfly, Summer 2008
zen garden
one rock
out of place
garden wall
behind the snail
its long noon shadow
ceiling mirror
between screams I see
my child being born
Shiki Monthly Kukai, February, 2011
sun-baked dust— the one thing moving is my neighbour's tongue
a crossword puzzle
side by side my parents
flurries of willow fluff
seven ducklings scatter
among the reeds
wind through the pines
your hair
falling off my shoulder
alone tonight
the stillness
between stars
it happens every year
but still
the woods filled with birdsong
long summer
the smell of rain
new again
tornado siren,
even the stars take shelter
summer’s end—
I let the thimbleberry
rest on my tongue
liquid sky . . .
a steel bucket hits
the well water
mossy boulder
the softness and hardness
of life
the skip of a skipping stone alpine swifts
abbey ruins
through a window frame
a tuft of wild barley
pink moon
i am asked again
why i’m not a mother
Grey dawn
climbs the sky
bird over bird.
moving day—
untangling bookmarks
from the brass doorknobs
moving through
the summer moon
slow swell
attention
standing tall in a stiff breeze
ixias
thunderbolt---
eyes light up
in the pine tree
night paddling the land blacker than the sea
where creek willows weave the sunlight ducklings
falling rain
grandma goes upstairs
step-step
a new path—
little bones
around the fox’s den
frost on the furrows
up to the vanishing point—
sunrise
shallow stream
we cross a bridge
of stars
immigration line
a red thread caught
in her teeth
pub. credit: Upstate Dim Sum 2009/11
he thinks again of turning leaves her hands
autumn leaves
lipstick red
her brand new path to herself
backstroke the sound of my mother’s womb
(published in Haijinx IV:1)
platelets—
the trip we were planning
to plan
pub. credit: Modern Haiku 41:2 (2010)
light falling everywhere in its own place — summer’s end
migrating geese—
wind flaps the scarecrow’s
empty sleeves
leaves changing a language i can’t fully grasp
home from the city—
waiting at the station
Orion
Original version published in Shamrock.
milkweed
leaving everything
behind
my journey begins:
a few snowflakes
flutter in the breeze
airplane window
mountains move
slowly past
Slime trail—
glancing back at
the glinting
just because
the sky is navigable—
thistledown
moonlight on aster
i take
the long way home
the climb
over barbed wire…
trumpet vine
just past mauve paddling hard for a dark shore
loneliness
the boat finding
its own way
thoughts unspool
with the white line
road trip
published in Frogpond 34:1
straight furrowed fields
all the things I wish
I could unsay
previously published in Jim Applegate, ed., Small Canyons 4 Anthology
across the blue dome of the great basin mustang’s eye
no Perseids yet—
just the Milky Way
and a million stars
half the sky
a deeper blue
mid-life birthday
the road home each bend unwinding an earlier version
anniversary
on his bedside table
a thin film of dust
jet lag
she unravels
his half-finished sweater
across his face
the light that slowly moves
across his field
we needn’t talk —
the night whispers
tales long forgotten
The many notes
of the falling rain,
all in tune.
Photo by Adiel Gardner, Poem by Don Wentworth
The poem was previously published in “Past