Monday, July 21, 2014

Three Haiku for Flying Creatures


The flowers are here!
But the tiger swallowtail
flies up to the sun.

--- \o/ ---

Robin runs in spurts
along the road: who praises
the running of birds?

--- \o/ ---

Ragged butterfly,
how can you flutter up
more hole than wing?

--- \o/ ---


Sunday, July 13, 2014

Where

Head down
scuff the gravel
cool between tall trees
step out into the bright heat
of home perched alone
on the crisp hilltop.

Head up
rustle ripe timothy
growing wild, hiding home
though you stretch up tiptoe
under that same sun to see
then step through and crunch across.

Straight ahead
driving by on the highway
tar and bricks steal proof of memory . . .
I do not follow that now paved road
nor look for overgrown paths to follow
just in case
the house stares back at me.


(Written during a workshop at the boyhood home of Stanley Kunitz; given themes: place and time.)

Wednesday, July 9, 2014

Stag

Today I heard you crack branches
and rip through tangled leaves
as you leaped up the impossible slope
above the roadway.

Seeing is not needed for believing.
I knew it was you.

When I did see you, I was not looking.
My eyes were surveying leafy side roads
into the park as I whizzed past,
seeking the road not taken.

You can't believe everything you hear,
but you were soundless anyway.

Like an icon in a Celtic mystery
you stood in the middle of the path
hocks hidden in the mist and antlers high,
echoing branches of dead trees.

Believing is not seeing.
I know you are out there, sight unseen.

Monday, July 7, 2014

Galloway Brook

     . . . there
appearing
      the brook takes five bends . . .
                             sparkling white with captured sun
undulating brown beneath evergreens
                       twirling a trio of sky blue eddies
        mirroring green overhanging maples
               retreating as low golden shallows cut by shadows . . .
disappearing
     there . . .

Saturday, July 5, 2014

Three Hike Haiku: At the Pond

White-bearded elders,
last year's cattails, watch over
brown, beardless youngsters.

Yellowed green leaf in a
dying spiral mimics briefly
that tiger swallowtail.

Lest I didn't notice
he flies to the sole dead tree
bold red cardinal.

Sunday, June 29, 2014

Inventory

startled today:
one large green and tan frog
with dark slit golden eyes;
one 'hairy' woodpecker,
an unflattering name for his
red-capped, black-and-white feathered finery;
one yellow-and-black-striped ground bee perusing one of many
triangular gaps in the outward tilted stonewall;
one unseen snake ripping fast
through dry grass underlying new green blades;
one parental tree swallow, again disturbed daily
and glaring from the glass-free garage window;
multitudinous miniature spiderlings,
round, reddish brown, dozing in dead pansy blooms,
whipped frantic by my prying, green-thumbed hands;
one bustling ant community
busily farming aphids on the alders
near the pond policed by speeding dragonflies
who are, in turn, startled too late to save themselves
from hungry leaping fish . . .
by that standard, I am a harmless intrusion
in my natural neighborhood.

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Haiku Hourly

My personal challenge today is to write a haiku hourly!

6 a.m.
Between mosquitoes
and evening breezes, I walk -
a robin studies me.

7 a.m.
Speaking softly
to calm a tiny chipmunk -
I startle the heron.

8 a.m.
Seeking freedom
the wasp batters the sky, trapped
under the skylight.

9 a.m.
Purging the past
ready to dump the clutter
I glare at the locked gate.

10 a.m.
Picnicking early,
peeking through the flap of a trash can,
puppet-like squirrel.

11 a.m.
Woodpeckers tapping,
two head-to-head, unconcerned;
their tree is now a fence.

12 p.m.
Silhouette on a post;
even with glasses I squint -
yes! a bluebird!

1 p.m.
We gape open-mouthed
8 a.m. in the parking lot;
sparrow mimes, "It's hot."

2 p.m.
Enjoying warm sun:
then angry, biting, climbing . . .
I weeded their nest.

3 p.m.
I float a pine branch
offering on our artificial pond -
will the frogs return?

4 p.m.
Hourly I watch
windblown leaves, wandering wildlife, changing sky -
poems are hard work!

5 p.m.
The calendar says
summer vacation but I
still hear students' voices.

6 p.m.
Stalking the last verse
the pond and yard are empty:
time has run out.