Non-seasonal

they count, too –

haiku moments

I couldn’t put into words

after the funeral

stretching out

in my childhood bed

dregs at the bottom

of my teacup

taste of sugar

lone guest gone –

the ticking

of the parlor clock

due for a haircut –

how many more

on this old head?

talking things out –

a iron bench  

too cold for sitting

death rattle –

that brief flutter

as the candle’s blown out

reading the label –

the old man’s pullover

inside out

that gay whistle –

a man rummaging

through the dumpster

held together

by its label –

a crushed whiskey
bottle

forbidden to touch,

underfoot

our shadows mingle

Hollywood

laughfest –

ticket for one

books clutched

to her breast, the librarian

locks up

Father’s tool chest –

every word

he never spoke

night rain heavy;

sometimes light –

my loneliness

bitter words –

the harsh zip

of her flight bag

far from home –

Jesus

in stained glass

a shade bluer than the sky –

the sliver of a moon’s

remainder

the old homestead –

a yardstick

taped to the kitchen jamb

lonely day –

the last rainbow fades

from the window prism

on my father’s

withered bicep –

a clipper ship tattoo

lonely night –

I listen to the traffic

up and down my street

on the high shelves,

her prized teapots,

never once stained by tea

outside the funeral parlor

an old man

leans on a broom

skin and bones,

my father

buried in the root-veined ground

as if from the earth’s belly,

the moon rises

from a deep gorge

the waitress

misplaces her pencil

in her bun

mailbox in distress –

the red flag

upside down

rainy day –

wandering a house

full of shadows

going by,

the one moon,

a hundred different names

on the list of repairs,

the stain of the mechanic’s

fingerprints

chatting with a neighbor;

his name eludes me
but the dog is Jack

a solitary tea –

the soft punk

of the kitchen clock

between cuckoos

the painted bird

lets the old house be

pine grove –

the slant of the hills,

the verticalness of trees

same smell of tobacco  

on their clothing – 

my son, late father

pallbearer –

hands full,

I taste my tears

heated argument –

the silence

of a closed door

worn in places

to the bare clay –
the golden buddha

3 am –

the traffic light

changing for no one

tea with a spinster aunt –

the old house complains

of my presence

softly I depart

my mother

asleep in her chair

funeral parlor –

the trumpet lilies’

white silence

choosing a pup;

will she, I wonder,

outlive me?

dry thunder –

God’s chair scraping

heaven’s floor

after a spat –

sharing

a small kitchen

beginner’s mind –   

always there
where I left it

the old homestead –

a chin-up bar on the door

to my room

cold shoulder –

the silence

of her heart-shaped tattoo

dawn stirrings –

my neighbor

cranks his truck

light rain –

a truck rolls by

on the rural road

flag ceremony –

the old vet’s uniform

hangs loosely

bridge night –

trying to remember our last

passionate kiss

asked to stand,

the new boy in class

studies his shoes

  

the ruins of a house –

a porch board’s

lament

morning zazen –

the hum

of the Frigidaire

guttering candle –

low in the west,

a yellow moon

nursing home lobby -
the potted plants

dust-laden

hiking the mountain –

at every turn,

its lonely immensity

work day over –

my shadow folded

against the barn door

toddler to dodderer –

walker to walker,

the seven ages now

a hole in the meadow –

lowering

the farmer’s body

the old farmer roams 

his apple orchard;

the trees no longer bear

Saturday night –

the old bachelor
presses his Sunday shirt

a daunting swim

across the channel –

first touch of the bottom

early morning quiet;

the hollow knocking sounds

boarding a rowboat

threat of rain;

a peal of thunder rolls

the length of the sky

one foot in their own –

those gathered

at my uncle’s grave

exit stage left;

the man in the moon

offers his profile

twilight stillness –

on the porch, the steady rocking

of Grannie’s chair

dust upon the bric-a-brac;

the widow asks after

her late husband

slicing

through a field of stars –

the sickle moon

homestead cemetery;

how deep in the clay

does title go?

hand to his heart,

the elderly Jew

speaks of Jerusalem

the cries of unseen gulls;
a tugboat

parts the river's mist

mountain campsite –

only back in civilization

is it Thursday

barn dance, to and fro

across the neck –

the rosined bow

travelers still catch

the Greyhound there –

the boarded-up diner

the stillness of the lake

quietens

the wooded twilight

rumble of thunder;
the weathercock wheels

to face an approaching storm

my father’s eyeglasses –

bent to the shape

of his head

always hazy now,

the moon –

these aged eyes

I roam the neighborhood;

dogs bark

behind their fences

factory tour –

the foreman shouts  

above the machinery 

evening traffic roars by;

at the sharp curve,

brake lights flare

freeway flat tire –

sand in the trunk

from our beach vacation

windy day –

tree shadows

animate the underbrush

winds howl,

the moon

un-budged

another birthday;

we have the same father –

the morning star and I

along the fence shadow,

racing –

a shadow squirrel

another birthday;

same age -

the morning star and I

prairie gloom;

a radio tower’s

distant lights

midnight express –

signals flare

at the empty crossings

the old vet’s 
purple heart;

ribbon faded to mauve

on spindly legs

the wooden bridge

wades upstream

grandpa's fiddle -

to and fro,

the blue tick's tail

rain lets up –

reflections in the lake

become clear again

rain lets up –

a mist moves in

from across the pond

free of the grove,

my ears add a roar

to the brisk wind

workers gathered

at the factory gate;

light rain falling

small plane –

a white cross

in the blue sky









boarded up
Shell station -
regular $1.09

call to prayer –   

the pulled rope,

the pealing bell

so loud! 

shooting, dribbling

in the empty gym

leaving a white furrow –

a jet plowing

the vast blue sky

boarded-up theatre –

letters missing  

from the marquee

 day-long rain;

I organize   

my watercolors

grandpa’s fiddle –

to and fro,   

the blue tick’s tail

toting it home with me –

the mountain

solitude 

always out of plumb –

my portrait   

in Mom’s hallway

rainy day –   

inside the window,

a bottle fly’s buzz

my uncle’s burial –

the mourners huddle

under two umbrellas

solitary nights –  

the same old moon

Ryokan couldn’t give away

after the rainstorm –

daubs of sunset  

in the oyster shell drive

daybreak –  

the multifarious clangor

of a garbage truck

a vesper sparrow

on the gate post   

surveys its kingdom

just another stony field –

wrens flitting about

the graveyard  

day long rain –

my breath  

fogs the window

having leapt the fence –

a whitetail deer  

among the cattle

mountain aerie –  

somewhere in the valley,

a church bell tolls

vast silence –

moonlight  

stills the sylvan glade

morning worship –

a gray squirrel   

praying on a fence post

down the valley one side,

over and up the other –

cloud shadows

creaks and murmers –

a north wind this morning

rummaging through the pines

crow

on a bare branch –

eyeing me

I rarely go there –

the end of the gorge
where the sun never shines

after the storm –

the sky

a celebratory blue

wielding an axe –

someone deep

in the hardwoods

dousing the last lamp,

moonlight pours

through a vaulted window

a rickety fence; a broken gate

welcome me  

to the hidden glen

light rain; 

in the hardwood glade,

foraging deer

leaving a white furrow –

a jet plowing   

the vast blue sky

cloud cover in the west

smears the sun’s

cadmium glare   

awakening

to the grumble of thunder;

the rain’s patois

silent night; 

Venus in the east,

brighter than a star

up from the glen,

a sudden   

cacophony of crows

spring day –

red wagon; 

a child pulling a child

dropping   

into the treetops,

the moon turns gold

setting sun – 

along the river,

shadows climb the trees

overgrown meadow;

grasshoppers flee

my strides   

clear night;  

a half-moon punting

through a sea of clouds

day-long rain;

the evening’s 

drenched silence

blue sky

around and through 

a transparent moon

boating the oars;

the moon  

recovers its roundness

through the pines,

a westering sun 

walks me to the river

only when I feel

no one is listening

do I sing for You 

hot afternoon; 

a light shower comes

tiptoeing across the pond

fly fishing;

the sun  

turns the river into light

taking its time –

the moon 

to cross the pond

from the lake,

rising – 

a dust-caked moon

full moon; 

my footsteps

on the empty street

above the desertscape,

the moon 

holding water

free of the grove,

my ears lend a roar

to the wind  

a break in the rain;

the sun a white daub

in a gray sky 

sundown;  

silver moon

above the eastern pines

rain lets up; 

reflections clear

along the shore

translucent with sunlight,

the cocked ear 

of a whitetail deer

sunset; 

through the trees,

flecks of gold

a shingled beach;

moonlight   

crunching under my sandals

a friend’s burial;

my long shadow 

touches a nearby grave

turning off the main road;

now it’s just

the moon and me

sunrise;  

the yellow

of my morning eggs

pure blue sky;

a thumbprint

moon     

an old lover’s burial;

I stand apart 

from the others

a full moon 

silvers the edges

of the drifting clouds

same colorings –

pine bark,

the house sparrow

fig tree shadows 

fly away –  

three crows

Mother’s parlor clock;

the silence  

between chimes

lonely evening;

thunder 

rattles the windows

quiet morning;

my street

ending in fog 

sunset –

pink-tinged,

the trail of a jet

bickering –  

my old house

with the rain

a fork in the road;

the moon and I

part ways  

in a high haze,

the silver blur 

of a quarter moon

asked directions,

the farmer 

strokes his beard

in the stillness of my room,

tree shadows    

stirred by the wind

its head tilted to one side –

the moon,  

not quite full

her name on the marble;

birth and death,  

the space between

after the storm,

floating – 

the imperturbable moon  

morning walk;  

in the treetops,

the coming day

ah, the moon! 

in a patch of sky

above my street

after the night storm -
the wet street
reflects the sunrise