Sunday, April 29, 2007

No. 4

Again the serial number. I apologize. I am not feeling very imaginative.
unable to sleep,
I fold cranes
till dawn
cherry blossoms
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

Sunday, April 22, 2007

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

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

relentless rain...
my shoes
aren't waterproof

in her illness,
empty soup cans

the night before vacation,
doing laundry

outside the cafe
it's too windy
for a book

in our absence,
has come

the toy store,
the graveyard

Sunday, April 8, 2007

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!

the screw is loose again

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.

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.

Sunday, April 1, 2007


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....


from the leafless tree,
the birdhouse

the anarchist
warms his hands
at the rubbish fire

not yet dawn,
one bird
already singing

with the heat I let the cat out

the local shop
has become
a chain

sparrow's song
in winter.
a fanfare