Category: nature
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haiku for a lazy afternoon
Carolina wren warbles – gentle spring shower sizzles on blacktop 5-14-25
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Estranged
morning prayers in the park anole in bright green bush steps out on fence rail turns brown waits for breakfast to walk by you answer the phone “Hello” – anole freezes, turns, scurries back into the bush, disappears into green belated happy birthday wishes talk of life and poetry he reads you a poem he…
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Late afternoon haiku
bright, warm winter day piercing bird calls rise above low hum of rush hour 2-13-23
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ambergris
(to a prompt) Belched up by adolescence on the shore of responsibility waiting for someone – anyone to find me. And divine that if they mix my stink with the fragrance of flowers their smell will linger longer on the skin of a wrist, a neck, between breasts. No one will know I am there…
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Faraway somewhere
4 am, half awake, deep-throated, distant fire truck siren wails. Its angry horn bellows, lookout! Complains again at another intersection. Ambulances and police cars sing harmony. Racing towards Hopkins on Garners Ferry Road, they do not turn into our neighborhood. In a faraway somewhere a family is in distress. Happy they did not stop at…
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rain haikus
empty coffee cupgo inside before it rainsand take a shower —————————- heavy morning airfull clouds darkening to greyrain in the forecast (forgot to get date, will add later)
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Spring haiku
grooving in sunshine on the ground and in the trees light and shadow dance 4-14-25
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Above the tree line
(“I exist in two places, here and where you are.” Margaret Atwood) I built my cabin in the mountains. Friends bring me provisions. I cook them dinner. We talk until they are bored and descend again among the living. I remain alone to feed above the tree line pulling sustenance from thin air. 4-18-25
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haiku of tidal pools
here along the shore the tide leaves living things I throw back in the sea 4-18-25
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Spinning toward munchkin town
(“For they sow the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind.” Hosea 8:7) I don’t care if sowers of anger, inherit a whirlwind. They can reap what they sow. But a storm front has no discernment, no sense of justice; it roars across the landscape and spins until it is spent. Sowers of the wind…
My husband's poetry 