(flown)
feathers in other places –
_______________________________________________
.
old tree
where their swing once was
new leaves
.
before the rain
the old man’s door swings open
again
.
milk moon
my bare feet on this
wood floor
corn planting moon
a whisper of grandmother’s
voice
another divided root-ball almost flower moon
.
winter rain
in my dream, the boat
never arrives
.
this path
somewhere the sound
of water
daylilies—
she cleans her hands
among the fish
all these tadpoles
in the pond—
stray cat
.
almost egg moon
something runs
across the road
april 2012 dottie dot award
4/12 moon viewing party
.
waters of spring
everywhere the smell of mud
and worms
national haiku poetry day
‘waters of spring’ kukai — 5th place
.
waters of spring
a great blue heron poised
on the shoreline
waters of spring
through these bare trees
a hawk
‘waters of spring’ kukai — 10th place
.
before the rain
she leaves without walking
the dog
cold wind
the front and back
of my hand
.
new morning –
I wake to the same
old moon
.
crow watching –
the unseen tree branch suddenly
seen
across the haikuverse — no. 28
.
old calendar
somewhere there are birds
like these
‘old calendar’ kukai — 8th place
.
old calendar
all these crossed-out days
he can’t remember
‘old calendar’ kukai — 8th place
.
lights
in every window
a promise
‘candle in the wind’ choice haiku — john daleiden
.
morning cold
on the churchyard fence
three starlings
‘momento mori’ choice haiku — john daleiden
.
he thinks again of turning leaves her hands
issue 11.3 — 11/17/11
across the haikuverse — no. 26
issa’a untidy hut — buddha of suburbia: issa’s sunday service #127
.
october rain
the princess invites her troll dolls
to tea
tea with trolls
blogging along tobacco road — tea with trolls pdf
.
last quarter moon
gazing along the path
of earth’s orbit
.
this last summer day
I sharpen
a box of new pencils
spring 2012 showcase
standard–word pond
.
this pumpkin
as full as that, harvest
moon
.
circles in the water
she enters this room
unnoticed
summer pond
her body slipping
through the fog
I bookmark pages
with birthday photos
before sun appears
a soft call
the whistle of wing
water boils
I make tea
summer morning
there are two doors
one is open
mourning doves
this soft rain follows
the same path
.
where do I write?
angie werren and her writing space
.
eastern daylight time
she leaves
another voicemail
.
She dances down the aisle to a song I loved when she was a child. I’m irritated. I want her to stop. I tell her that she’s not the only person in the garden department. She takes the bright yellow flowers out of my hands and laughs. “No,” she says, “but I am the only one dancing.”
.
this brief life a dragonfly
.
dragonfly
where there is water
a path
.
the dog groans
dream-woods dirt on her feet
this milk moon
.
a tree falls
only the wood ear
listens
FungiFama — Southern Vancouver Mycological Society — Volume 15 Issue 1
mushroom harvest
.
summer pond
her body slipping
through the fog
I bookmark pages
with birthday photos
across the haikuverse — no. 21
.
honking geese
the old woman questions her dog
7/12/11
.
today slips
into the room hungry
on tiny paws
issue 11.2 — 10/19/11
modern haiga — short. lyrical. sometimes funny. 10/19/11
tinywords — word pond
poems to remember — wild berries — 12/29/11
.
cicada song
the cat stalks
fat robins
.
I open the door to a yardful of starlings
and one crow on the roof
.
falling snow
and suddenly we stop
for deer
.
empty nest
still
the bird sings
.
this day
is an icicle
dangerously long
boldly challenging
the sun
.
whale
I didn’t understand enormity until
I landed on the splintering boat
its humans flipping through air
like krill
.
a solitary bird calls to the space between lightning and thunder
per diem: daily haiku — the haiku foundation 3/3/12
issue 10.2 — 8/11/10
.
today’s mown grass is a velvet throne :: sunlight in trees a chandelier
.
she fell
the cadence of her life / interrupted
by a soft-sliding
.
husband-silent house
mousetrap snaps in the empty
it lands upside-down
.
her shaking fingers grasped his hand
she smelled of lace collars and cameo brooches
.
march
stands like zeus at the edge of spring
throwing thunderbolts
the daffodils are bewildered
birds whisper about southern states
.
startled awake by snowplow scrape
she drifts back
dreaming of strange round men
.
he sat alone
unwrapped flowers in his hand
starved petals browning
.
sycamore stands nude
raising clavicles spreading phalanges
grasping for cloud cover
.
five degrees of frost
translucence anoints high wires
sways on evergreens
2/5/10
.
rain streams in muddy sidewalk rivers
she says everything smells like worms
.
image in the trees
sudden burst of chatter
red flies into blue
.
far-flying birds are strings and rosined bows
the wind a crying cello
.
crow taunts me from the light pole
do I look like Poe in the pouring rain?
.
fresh-baked gingerbread
for the savor it imparts
a child with wide eyes
.
snowflakes on the ground
great-grandma’s christmas cookies
sift flour and sugar
.
he fidgets in his ill-fitted suit
thrust in the midst of
bereavement
he hopes no one notices his shoes
.
the groundhog hopes the compost pile remains uncovered
he likes mangoes
.
Once upon a time, she stood by the rocks
waiting for ships full of Puritans.
Today, she decided to let maize just be maize.
.
in the right light it looked like turkey.
after a few shots of tequila,
they wouldn’t notice the strange taste.
hopefully.
.
It’s not everyday that every day seems as if
it is just a piece of toast she ate the day before,
but it seems that way today.
.
she wonders out loud
(landing as she did in the
bread of it all) does the
buttered side end up right-
side down in wonderland?
.
flash flood
rain has confused the creek
it think it’s an ocean;
even blue jays shriek like gulls
.
The head sat there, wrapped in plastic.
She didn’t think she could cut it:
there was no bacon and just LT wouldn’t do.
.
the boxes collapsed
spilling feathers all over the highway
each car that drove by stirred up
ocean waves of down.
.
“I bought it at a garage sale and wondered
if it was worth anything,” she said
as she strummed the harp’s missing strings.
.
it’s cold this morning
my sweaters are folded in cedar-chipped boxes
.
it looks like a wedding invitation
he won’t open it;
his shoes are all wrong and
he doesn’t have pants
.
I saw an old man
doing figure-eights in his driveway
sun flickers on dusty chrome
and red enamel
.
summer rain
hypnotic drips sizzle
on a backyard grill;
squawking grackles
sulk through wet grass
.
She knew.
If she answered that call, he would know
that she knew he was in Cleveland.
And she knew he’d want the money.
.
I picked up the wrong basket
accidentally;
we both have plum tomatoes.
6/26/09
.
lanky dogwoods dig their root-paws
into fresh dirt panting leaves lap up the rain
7/30/09
.
gray rushes in ready to rumble
pushing open sky into a corner…
this rain is big and loud
.
he slithers his bicycle-tire body so fast
daylilies shake like a storm is coming
(for mice hiding under floorboards there is)
.
sun-drunk yellowjackets tease
tag-you’re-it boys
::
and the places–
_______________________________
four and twenty short form poetry
pay attention: a river of stones
poeet — #haiku by @therer2doors
_______________________________
all poetry ©aewerren 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012
other publications and such
Several OMG moments: 39, 37, 36, 33, 29, 28, 26, 23, 20, 18 letting maize be maize, 18, 13, 11, and last but not least 1.
thank you, marie.