Phew...

Today's was a much more mundane session of the club, so my output remained in the realm of manageability. Although, not all of them are really that good. Let's see what comes up, hey?
..........
new soap.
feeling the ridges
rub away
..........
foggy morning.
seagulls inspect
left field
..........
"the essence of haiku"
images
of chemical distillation
..........
power outage.
winter gets
a little colder
..........
faded pattern.
it all made sense
once
..........
wondering
if it's worth arguing
..........
tainted moon.
ideas change
..........
warm again, cold again.
October
can't decide
..........
after break,
cleaning up
the salad bar
..........
endless lecture.
in the next row,
she does her hair
..........
rainy morning.
the routine happens
slowly
..........
deep moss...
for a moment,
I lose myself
..........

Oh dear...

So today, in Haiku Club, we were working on a stream-of-consciousness approach to haiku. Basically, we went out into the courtyard and tried to write one haiku after another until we had about twenty. Well....let's just say I got there quite a bit faster than everyone else, and, well, kept going. I think I had fifty-five in total, though not all of them are worth sharing. Here we go...
..........
running.
long grass
tickles my legs
..........
on the sidewalk,
dried leaves crunch
under my feet
..........
decaying crown
of rhododendron blooms
..........
at the board,
a student
explains the teacher
..........
desert sun.
even the camera
is blinded
..........
abandoned building.
the sun still warms
the paving stones
..........
on top of the hill,
a row of pines
..........
old well cover.
under it,
only dirt
..........
frantic notes.
watching my pen run
out of ink
..........
a rabbit
nibbles
the four-leaf clover
..........
after the party,
the eternal
washing up
..........
in the sun, drifting.
awake--
--asleep
..........
strong wind.
suddenly,
it's raining leaves
..........
under the bed
a community
of misfits
..........
dusty attic.
all the relics
bring back stories
..........
that cute boy--
if only I could ask:
is he gay?
..........
early morning.
trying to read
last night's writing
..........
realizing she's late,
wondering
if it's worth it
..........
after the 5-year-old,
nature's sounds
reclaim the woods
..........
looking up,
all I see
are leaves
..........
going dancing.
the first time
in many years
..........

On the Composition of Writers.... (or me, anyway)

Take seven parts absent minded poet, mix in three days of overloaded schedule, smother with High School Drama, allow to bubble for a week, and what do you get? Someone who doesn't update their blog on time... Heh. Sorry!
..........
falling leaves
play little games
in the autumn winds
..........
two sets of clothes.
one of them's
for Gym
..........
strange geometry:
pages
on the bulletin board
..........
the pizza man
interrupts
the meaning of life
..........
leaving the funeral...
church bells
..........
ink bleeds slowly
onto my skin
..........
new light,
the face of my watch
a new color
..........
chairs on desks.
dust motes learn
..........
old bag...
equal rights sticker
peels
..........
fallen leaf
covers
the mole's burrow
..........
lichen
slowly covers
the bench
..........
door propped open.
passers-by
watch
..........
two years later,
a choir song
..........
poets' meeting.
we all share
the silence
..........
morning, cold and wet.
falling leaves
stick
..........

A Change in Schedule...

With the start of the school year comes the start of Haiku Club. As it meets on Tuesdays, it makes most sense to shift the updating thither. Unfortunately, it rather slipped my mind last week, so I have lots and lots (and lots...) of haiku. Heh heh heh. Sorry.....
..........
abandoned building.
plants grow
between paving stones
..........
long ago orchard:
the trees
still in rows
..........
the building's
flat roof.
tree-tops
peep over
..........
urban courtyard.
the Lords and Ladies
still find it
..........
in the old drainpipe,
the forest
in microcosm
..........
anticipating fall,
Japanese maple
already red
..........
old costume:
a faded order:
hem!
..........
perched in a tree,
she watches the world
go by
..........
old wing of the school...
paint
peels
..........
new benches.
yellow wood
turns brown
..........
tree shadows
dance
on the open lawn
..........
quiet meditation.
suddenly,
he laughs
..........

Whoops!

Sorry I didn't post yesterday; I was rather bogged down with other things. But I have poems! Hooray for the muse of Autumn!
..........
summer lightning
on the hills beyond.
silence here
..........
the same walk...
only the seasons
change
..........
adjacent math rooms.
three teachers;
one drone
..........
another year...
last year's underbrush
gone
..........
with wings,
the pen becomes
a dragonfly
..........
a knowing smile
from someone
I've never even seen
..........
on the sidewalk, half
of a rusted key
..........
summer afternoon
watering
the new yews
..........

No. 19

This entry is likely to be somewhat shorter than normal. There's a haibun on the brilliancy of the skies of late, but it's still percolating, and it doesn't do to rush these things...
..........
familiar faces
gone again.
new glasses
..........
arch of vines
overgrown
by itself
..........
one year later,
the same haiku
again
..........
in the wind,
the white wing
of a moth
..........
the tree's shadow
cast in leaves
..........
scattered business cards
on the sidewalk
after rain
..........

Post No. 18

Well, right on cue with the start of school, the creative juices started to flow. It seems that I only write when I have absolutely no time to do it... Hmmm.... Well, anyway, here's the most recent batch!
..........
oboe solo...
raven
in the red pine
..........
Sinfonia Antarctica...
passing cars
become waves
..........
in vain,
the cat
attacks the box
..........
September...
suddenly,
it's fall
..........
baking.
the fine line
between raw and black
..........
tree roots
make speed bumps
on the old bike trail
..........

The Muse Stirs...

While August may not be the most fertile month for my poetical cornfield, the poems do accumulate. And, seeing as school is looming on the horizon of summer, I thought I might as well start the ninth month with a clean slate. So.... I present to you the acquired detritus of the tail end of summer!
..........
thunder...
after five years,
the mountaintop
.........
unnoticed,
the incense stick
buns out
..........
A Musical Offering.
the train whistle
becomes a fifth voice
..........
blackbird under juniper rain
..........
knitting.
the computer
endlessly updating
..........
sheet music.
all the parts
unlabeled
..........
celtic band.
the guitarist's
digital watch
..........
before the concert,
the harpsichord
tuner
..........
distracted from Keats
by the antics
of crabs
..........
soliloquy:
how much
is the actor acting?
..........

Noise!

Sound. Hammering, pounding, shattering! Warping, twisting, breaking. Unresolved dissonance clamoring, wailing, shrieking. Unbearable, beating everything, everything, into submission.

Mindless. Humming, droning, an undercurrent of pain and death. Suffering, rendered unspeakable, horribly, renderingly real. Heartbreak and anguish given voice.

The disparity of surface and soul explored in waves of intolerable harmonics. Overtones, loose firecrackers, whizzing overhead, snaring Hope, forcing her down to earth. Then deeper, deeper, until her quavering light is utterly extinguished.

Trumpets, drums, fifes blaring, individual timbres lost and overwhelmed. Somewhere, a choir sings of judgment, the words lost in a tumble of sliding consonants.

And then, after the noise,

comes the silence.
..........

(The above is not really a haibun, but I like it enough to include it anyway.)

An announcement

My Muse seems to have fled to a Drawing room somewhere in Victorian England, and my metaphysical self has gone off in search of her. I'm not sure when they'll be back. There's not much point in posting until they do, so there will be a hiatus of indeterminate length, beginning now. Ta ta for now!

Heh...

So, today, when I was preparing to update, I dutifully whipped out my little haiku pad. Imagine my shock and horror when I found that there were only three haiku in it! Three! For an entire week! Then I realized that this was not the case. One of them was from two weeks ago.

Woe! What's a poet to do?

I suppose I shall have to go off into the wilds of Modern Poetry Land and see what strange fantastic beast I encounter. If what I'm plotting in my head makes its way down to paper, some of the imagery will have come from the shed at Tanglewood and the Choat's house at Naumkeag.

The haiku:

through the summer window,
the sound of rain
..........
she snores
in time with
the orchestra
..........

Crazy modern stream-of-consciousness prose-poem!

I

Mood lighting. The paneled ceiling catches it, reflects it, intensifies it. It draws attention. Not screaming, as a brass fanfare, but quiet, seductive. It has all the secrets in the world, if you will just take a moment to look. But the stage is empty. A performance is a bout to begin. Or has it just ended? In the mind, figures dance across it, playing rolls. Acting.

Everyone acts. Even those who despise the Bard, even those who would never pick up a script. We all act. Acting is just lying without words. We turn a face to the world that is happy, serene, okay with everything. It doesn't matter what's inside. We may be crying, bleeding, to ourselves in the dark, but we'll still pretend to the world that we're happy. Acting. In some ways, you may become who you act, but only a part of you, a part that will war with other parts until the pain is too much and the mask falls off completely, allowing a brief window into who we really are. Acting.

II

An old house, standing on ancient grounds. The rich, the wealthy. This was their home. A guided tour. This, the dining room, set for an elaborate dessert. This the study, where Mister rich-and-famous himself would come to get away from the family. The butler worked here, the maids, there.

You can see them, if you look hard enough. They're still there. Imagine...The old lady, sitting in that chair--that chair!--reading to her two youngest grandchildren, who crouched there and there--those two spots on the carpet--that carpet!-- on either side of the chair--that chair!. Picture them! Sitting there. Nineteen fifty-seven: The president visiting. Not some idealized portrait, sitting on the wall in the social studies classroom, but a real man. A real man, about yea high, who stood in this very hall, perhaps even where you are standing now. Just that. An important man, but nothing more than a man. Just as frail and fragile as you or I.

III

The clock in the room ticks. An old grandfather clock, taller than the old lady who sits in a nearby chair. Bedecked in black, the picture of Victorian mourning. The clock doesn't know that someone just died. I just tells time. The endless well-wishers, the doctors, the nurses, shuffling about. They didn't notice the clock, and it didn't notice them.

The room is finally empty, save the old lady, finally left alone with her own grief. Tension leaves it, and it sags, no longer high-strung. She sags, tired of holding here ageing frame erect. Does she cry? Is she stolid, too wrapped up in other things to care for the passing of one so dear? Is the stage set for some eerie modern drama, a confrontation with more unsaid than scripted? Everything waits. It stands on the point of a pin, perfectly balanced, as we slowly fade to grey.

Summertime...

...and the livin' is easy...
I apologize for the lateness of this entry; things got a little out of hand. (Power outages were involved...) The sumer arts camp has finally got the creative miasma percolating, and haiku are condensing like mad!
..........
ac exhaust:
hot air
on a hot day
..........
old sousaphone
rusts
on the wall
..........
wheel-throwing.
one with the clay;
one with myself
..........
book of haiku...
distracted
by the font
..........
I notice
an unexpected
watermark
..........
moving furniture...
suddenly:
thunder
..........
thrift store scarves.
untangling
the endless knot
..........

Radio Voices

Driving. Endless fields of withering corn. The voice on the car radio the same as it always has been, droning on, as it always has. Now audible, now just a murmur, covered up by the noise of the bumpy dirt road.

There is no destination. The journey itself is its own end. The sun is alone in the endless sky, shining down on endless fields of endless crops. The only moving air is that which comes through the windows bearing dust.

meditating:
an eternal moment
of thoughtlessness

Rainsong Defiant

You know what? I really don't have anything to say here. Let the poems speak for themselves!
..........
charred ruins.
only a listing torii
remains
..........
both brain
and page
empty
..........
a field of umbrellas.
rainy independence day
..........
rain.
even the faucet
drips
..........

Rainsong Defiant

Rain. Down from the sky in sheets it falls, blustery, black, and grim. The morning's brilliant sun engulfed by noontime clouds. The city huddles beneath its rainy shawl, weathering the storm as best it can.

But on the field, there is life. There has to be. Certain celebrations will not wait. A tent stands at one end, faint strains of Sousa drifting over the small, determined crowd. A "sunshine march", so ironic, water spilling over the edge and onto the conductor. The trio of El Capitan, so reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, is lost in a fresh onset. Finally, with a last gush of bombast, Stars and Stripes moves to its inevitable close. Behind them, the fireworks start.

birds fly south,
unaware.
their home is gone

Ingenium loci

The latest edition of Modern Haiku has arrived, and with it, a flood of inspiration. In addition to this, the summer day camp I'm currently in has bounced me all around the region where I live, and I've been gathering impressions from all the places we've visited to work into a haibun later on. Isn't summer wonderful?
.........
making cairns.
the stream bubbles
happily
..........
after the fact,
my words
vanish
..........
after many beautiful days,
there is no river
..........
the car passes.
its dust
lingers
..........
once the fireworks start,
no one
hears the band
..........
they sing
Requiem,
the music,
Gloria
..........
the dove of peace
visits
a funeral
..........
someone
lets off fireworks
early
..........

Ingenium Loci
(The spirit of Place)

Coming up the valley, a stone wall looms. Something out of a distant time, covered in moss and ferns, a testament to some forgotten might. Rubble around it fills the gorge, boulders strewn in a frozen flood. Only mosquitoes disturb the lichen's slow growth, competing with moss for dominance of the rock. To disturb this peace is sacrilege.

a butterfly
lands
on the old grave

Trees arch their bows over this still scene. Not pale imitations, but mighty and massive, carrying the memory of the world forest down to today. This place is theirs. People may come and go, but they are eternal.

It is not a nice peace. We are invaders. There is power beneath the trees, but it is not ours for the taking. Their majesty is best observed briefly, and from a distance. It is dangerous beneath their branches. Not a danger to one's body, but the danger of being changed, of losing something not worth the immaterial gain. To lose oneself in the endless mossy passageways between their trunks; to disappear forever from the hearts and minds of friends. To fade with the forest when the unstoppable wave of humanity bears down with saw and torch to take the land that was never theirs.

a flake of ash:
rising...
falling

The Travelers

Well, due to exam madness the week before last, come Sunday, I only had one or two haiku, which simply weren't worth posting. This week wasn't looking any better until we went on a little trip to the state's capitol. True to form, the creative juices were stimulated, and I now present to you this week's harvest. Enjoy!
..........
summer sunrise
over fields
of dew
..........
when I stand,
the cat
steals my chair
..........
incense drifts
in lazy coils
upwards
.........
tall grass.
abandoned railway
...........
old notebook dying,
I search
for its replacement
..........
waiting...
watching...
the ice-cream melts
.........
a play about the moon.
walking home,
we don't see it
.......

The Travelers

The train leaves the station. Shuddering, it grumbles forward, moving along iron rails. Newspapers flutter in the wind of its passing.

The world passes by the window. Freight cars, left to the ravages of weather and graffiti, slowly rust to nothing. Stations, once brightly painted, are now relics, not even held together by hope.

Hope. This voyage confirms it existed once. Houses, stations, streets. All erected with hope and pride, sometimes only held together by one person's dreams. No longer. Ramshackle houses succumb to rot. Untended windows are only holes ringed with shards of glass. Old paint blisters and boils, exposing poured cement underneath. These dreams, deferred, have withered, and are no more. Not a sudden demise, but a slow one, that leaves you at the other end wondering how things got to be the way they are now.

Death.
slow rain
this city's shroud

There are other tracks. They led somewhere once. No longer. Grass, flowers, and trees grow between their rusted rails, that curve away to an abrupt end. The road once taken, but no more.
All is clockwork. Not smooth, but mechanical. There need be no hope on such a forsaken journey. The trains will move, regardless of despair, so long as there is a driver. People move. Not a hedonistic rush to better things, but the grim motions of inertia, a routine unbreakable, once settled into. No poetic journey of hope, this; rather the grim march of quiet death.

Bonus Post!

It's the Modern Haiku rejection issue! I sent ten of my favorite haiku (which have not appeared in this blog) in to Modern Haiku. Alas! they took none. The bright side is that now I can publish them here. I'm not that distraught. It's as the Go adage says: Lose your first fifty games as quickly as possible.
..........
pinecones
litter the ground
in the summer shade
.........
after summer break,
last year's posters
paper the bulletin boards
..........
idly scratching
the first mosquito bite
of summer
..........
sunrise...
mist
covers the azaleas
..........
this Spring morning,
the whole world's
a picture postcard!
..........
he trips on the door jamb.
the school gets another
coffee stain
..........
growing old,
the tree
splits the sidewalk
..........
cracked paint
on the stop sign
gathers dew
..........
old chopstick...
still the smell
of soy sauce
...........
in profound contemplation,
the cat sits
in the litterbox
...........

The Dying Gasp

The dying gasp of school is upon us! Which means, basically, that every class is reaching fever pitch in preparation for exam week. This in the rather mundane excuse for last week's lack of entry. That's okay, though, because I've been far too busy to write as much poetry as I should like. There's a haibun percolating somewhere out of sight that I'd really like to write out; unfortunately, it refuses to congeal into anything concrete. Ah well. Only four more days.
.........
when it doesn't fly away,
I realize the fly
is an ant
..........
post-its
litter my floor
like fallen leaves
..........
bloated moon,
shrouded in fog,
comes and goes
..........
summer snowstorm:
poplar seeds
engulf the world
..........
during the storm,
I hear the sea....
in Oklahoma
..........
the butterfly tries to land on an oil slick
..........

On Seasons

Last week, at my school's haiku club, the topic of seasons came up. We didn't actually get very far before straying into the wilds of conversational topic areas, but it got me thinking, and I've decided to record my thoughts here.

Haiku has more than four seasons, and they don't follow anything as regular as the solstices and equinoxes. Let's begin at that cliche starting point, Spring.

Early Spring: Those few brief days when the trees go from being barren and twiggy to being leafy and green. Still rather cool, lots of dew in the mornings.

Spring: Flowers! Also rather ephemeral, lasts until temperatures start loitering in the high seventies.

Early Summer: Most of the Spring flowers are gone, temperatures still between 75-85 during the day (the temperature is in Fahrenheit, by the way, not Celsius).

High Summer: Alas! this comes all too soon! Hot, humid, and just generally unpleasant. When the air is dry, this time of year can be pleasant, until it gets dusty. This is also peak thunderstorm season, in places that get thunderstorms.

Fall: The temperature drops, and all the leaves turn pretty colors and fall off the trees.

November: Yes, it actually gets a season to itself. All the leaves are down, but there's no snow. Everything's brown, brown, brown, and sometimes grey.

Early Winter: When it's too cold to go outside without a heavy coat, but there's still no snow.

Winter Proper: Snow!

Mud Season, aka "March": The time between when the snow melts and the trees bud. The name says it all...

And now that I'm through rambling, I'll actually give you some haiku!
.........
only birdsong...
there is no one
at the bus stop
..........
on the asphalt,
a jogger's footprint
dries
..........
Spring and Summer
collide.
late May
..........
small flowers
change the color
of the grass
..........
last year's
political cartoons
are no longer funny
.........

Weather...

...can be fiendishly annoying. Last week, it was all sunny and warm and beautiful. But now? Now it is cold and wet and gloomy. Oh well. At least it gives me another shot at writing early Spring haiku. I've recently discovered tanka, so some of those might start showing up here. If I ever write any...
..........
the boy soprano's voice
cracks
..........
five minutes later,
this morning's haiku
forgotten
..........
lights
warm up slowly.
sunrise in the gymnasium
..........
a rain of petals
covers the earth
like snow
..........
expecting thunder,
all I get
is drizzle
..........
long band...
we rehearse
my fifty-measure silence
.........
sleeping on garbage bags...
if it weren't for the blue umbrella,
he could be one
..........

Summer

Isn't it amazing how quickly summer can come? It seems like it's hardly become spring! Yet already the weather has turned hot and humid. (Well, not today. Today's pleasantly cool.) Ah, well. This week's haiku range everywhere from trees leafing to the first day back from summer break. Enjoy!
..........
overnight,
new buds
leaf
..........
petals,
like sand
roll in the wind
..........
dressed in black,
he's a shadow's shadow
in the corner
..........
fresh road lines
bright yellow
on a Spring morning
..........
my shoes
tinted green
from lawnmowing
..........
after summer break,
last year's posters
litter the bulletin boards
..........
Summer

Though it is only May, it feels like the height of summer break. Waves of heat lie over the town, and people move slowly, drifting from store to store. Someone slams a car door.

in the dust,
the bright blue feather
of a jay

The bell of the convenience store jingles as the door swings shut. The store owner looks up from swatting flies to see someone disappear down the aisle of baking ingredients. The ceiling fan creaks as it spins, doing little to dispel the stillness. He goes back to the flies.

The customer moves quietly; the store owner doesn't notice them approach the counter until they plop down a large bag of brown sugar and reach for their wallet.

A momentary feeling of disconcertion: the customer seems to be stuck between: the eyes seem to old for a teenager, though everything else suggests it; long hair pulled back in a loose braid, feminine clothes, but masculine body...

A moment of disconcertion, and then they are gone, leaving only the smell of brown sugar in the sun.

The Visitor

This haibun actually happened to me! Well, sort of. It seemed like a really good scenario, but when I started typing it up, it morphed into something completely different. So it wound up happening on a dusty summer day instead of a rather damp spring one. C'est la vive! I hope you enjoy it, in any case, as well as this week's haiku.
..........
in the pocket
of the first bassoonist,
Physics homework
..........
video game next door.
their shouts
could be sound effects
..........
the atheist
comes to church
for the music
..........

The Visitor

Suitcase, car, long-term parking (must be sure to keep ticket somewhere where it can be found again...), shuttle, airport, security, waiting, plane, waiting, flight, landing, waiting, airport, doors, shuttle, stop, suitcase, step off, silence.

A long, dusty, country road extends before her. She looks down, rather lost, at the instructions in her hands. They're from her host, the person she's going to be staying with. She needs to take a bus; it's ridiculous that a bus would come this far from the center of town. But the town isn't that big, really. There's nothing better for the buses to do. One should be along soon. Soon. Eventually. Perhaps her watch is fast. She did remember to set it back, right? Maybe they broke down somewhere. A flat tire. That would take a while to fix. Still, not that long. The bus should come soon. Right.

a fish out of water,
the visitor,
checks the bus schedule

Finally, she notices someone on the other side of the street, waiting, reading something idly. Completely ignoring her. More waiting. The sun shines down, lazily moving across the heavens. The dust sits there. There isn't any wind to move it. She realizes, suddenly, that her watch battery has died. Not that time makes any difference here.

Finally, she crosses the street--Why does she look both ways? Nothing's moved for hours!--and asks him about the bus. She seems to wake him from some dream; he hasn't turned a page for minutes. He informs her kindly that the buses come and go as they please, and not to worry. He also tells her the rout to town, about an hour's walk, due East. She might make it there before the next bus comes. Or maybe not.

out of luck,
the visitor
faces a long walk

As she disappears from sight, he smiles, and returns to not-quite-reading. Five minutes later, the bus comes.

And goes.

No. 4

Again the serial number. I apologize. I am not feeling very imaginative.
..........
unable to sleep,
I fold cranes
till dawn
..........
cherry blossoms
frame
the half-moon
..........
flakes of paint
on the handrail
a surprising color
...........
under the bridge,
I lose my soundtrack:
rain on the umbrella
..........
before rehearsal,
a cellist
reads the paper
..........
from the other side,
the church window:
just so much colored glass

Post No. 3

(When in doubt, go with a serial number...)
Last week, I was on vacation! Which means, basically that I cut myself off from all forms of communication and contact with the outside world. So, no entry last week. (That, and the fact that our hotel had no wireless...) As a result, I have lots of haiku. Lots and lots of haiku.
..........
trying to whistle,
I make only
the sound of wind
..........

among the cigarette buts,
the white crocus
blooms
..........

walking to school...
for the first time,
I hear the silence
..........

relentless rain...
my shoes
aren't waterproof
.........

in her illness,
empty soup cans
multiply
..........

the night before vacation,
doing laundry
..........

outside the cafe
it's too windy
for a book
..........

in our absence,
Spring
has come
.........

behind
the toy store,
the graveyard

Spring Rainsong

It's Spring, and we're renovating! (Yes, I know, it's been Spring for several weeks, but all the snow's finally gone.) We had our first spring rain this week. It got cold later, but it was warm for a few days, at least. Oh well. Warm weather is coming!
..........

unnoticed,
the screw is loose again
..........

beating
against the window,
the first moth
..........

mother cat
acts like
her kittens
.........

Spring Rainsong

Spring is a time for beginnings, a time for firsts. Fledglings leave the nest for the first time. The ground thaws, and the first shoots appear. The snow melts, and the first spring rain washes winter's grime down the drain.

riverbed
in the roadside sand

The falling rain holds the world in a gentle embrace. The streets are quiet, empty. An afternoon calm. There are no signs of life save the grasses and the trees, slowly emerging from dormancy. The colors are muted, darkened. Only the greens stand out, made bright and slick by the steady rain. The world seems neither here nor there. A twilight world suspended half in, half out of this reality. It seems pulled in two directions: to a future of emptiness and a past of legend.

the slate shingle
loses its features
to the rain

The rain falls. Pools form. Later, they will reflect the sky, but now they are dark. Blank pools, full of memory. As the snow melts, things emerge. Things long lost, but changed by their long solace out of sight. Some things we would rather forget. The rain washes over them all, wearing them away.

the past
follows sand
down the storm drain

Spring is a time for beginnings.

Introduction

The scene: a dark, empty stage. A lonely figure walks up to a microphone. He looks around, as if waiting for others to join him. When no one does, he taps the microphone lightly and begins.

Hello. As you've probably gathered, I'm just starting a blog for the first time. So pardon in advance for any hideous errors I make early on; technology doesn't like me.
So, what can you expect on this blog of mine? Haiku. And possibly some haibun, if the mood strikes me. Why here? Because I write a lot. Most of it, I figure, will not be very good. But, every now and again, in the masses of paper I cover, will be one that's absolutely brilliant. And, of course, fifty that are absolute drivel. Right now, all of my haiku are lying around on little slips of paper in a manila folder. I'd like to start getting them out there, if nothing else so that I can get a little constructive criticism. So that's why I'm here.
I plan to update this every week, probably on Sundays. But, with the degree of randomness in my schedule, updates will probably be rather random. I'll include my favorite haiku of the week, and perhaps drag out some from a long time ago. If I feel so inspired, I'll also include a haibun.
Feedback is greatly appreciated! (For those curious as to exactly what a haiku is, I highly recommend The Haiku Anthology, edited by Cor van den Heuvel. Not only does it have some wonderful haiku, it has complete definitions in the index.)

With that out of the way....

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hanging
from the leafless tree,
the birdhouse
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the anarchist
warms his hands
at the rubbish fire
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not yet dawn,
one bird
already singing
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with the heat I let the cat out
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the local shop
has become
a chain
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sparrow's song
in winter.
a fanfare
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