Playing with haiku with my friend, Phill


Sullen birds

one last summer day
cold wind under low black clouds
sullen birds gone quiet

crows on the wire
wind swinging them silently
summer has ended

leaves spiraling gently down
to race along the river

faded petals drift
swirling in muddy eddies
unwilling to go

water, gurgling over the falls
upstream – reluctant to come

Thin ice, translucent,
Wends along brown river banks
Beneath water flows

ancient trees drink long of the flood
willow fronds caress the waves

where once the sun blazed,
shaded beneath the willow
we slaked our fierce thirsts

Here is the original text from comments off the original haiku on his blog…I just “stole them” from his pages to have a copy of my own.  Phill is a true master of many arts, and a dear friend. You should check out his plethora of work!

His are bolded, and mine are italicized … the formatting I was trying to do was way too difficult.

detecting a blind spot

I won’t love you

even as I sweep
your fallen, broken stars
into dusty piles
waiting on the linoleum
for the recycling bin

or sop up the salty tear-drop
remnants from your heart
broken over melted snow
held too tightly
in your warm, closed hand

during the solar eclipse
I sneaked a dangerous glimpse
at the gloriously hiding sun-
sometimes even stars and snowflakes
are only second place

how the conversation might go

I would like to tell you
about how the purple flowering vine
clings to mortar
holding the bricks into a wall
as it climbs towards the sun,

but I’m  afraid
that if you stopped by my porch
for simple conversation
and a coffee

I’d say instead
how the tendrils
gripped the red-brown bricks
with little hairs, translucent,

tiny like the ones sprinkled
across the curve of your stomach
that only could be seen
from my head nestled there

in the afternoon light
dappling us through the lattice
as we cling to each other
on the double wedding ring
quilt spread carefully on the floor.


limbs bare in the morning light
sketched charcoal
as they stretch against
the blush of the waking horizon
Louie croons softly

“It’s a wonderful world”
your lips whisper
against the nape of my neck
your hand gently cups my breast
as vestiges of warm dreams slip away

remembered rituals

plain white bread toasted
spread to the edges with jam
dunked in hot black tea

Mercurochrome spread
quickly over knees scraped raw
the hurt blown away

grilled cheese triangles
tomato soup made with milk
and oyster crackers

respecting elders
always saying I love you
flowers on your grave

the happiness found in a glass half full

As much as
you wish to lay bare to me
the chording of your heart,
you hold it close
for only you to hear.

Late at night
you sit alone by the fire
strumming as if
possessed by
heaven’s demons,
callouses sliding
smoothly on the strings

and at twilight
softly singing solo
descant over the notes,
harmonizing companionless,
blissfully unaware
of my symphony
waiting for you to play.

Remnants of flavor exist
in dregs left in the cup.
I curl in my corner
to watch, listen,
to glean scraps of joy.

Title is transient still. Haven’t figured out what it really is saying 🙂

As if we were Odonata

I come to you
in indigo night

gossamer shimmer
starlight on
dragonfly wings

rain on meadow grasses
full-blown roses
violets on fragile stem

consummate touches
as if connecting
in midair

I am coaxed, bent
bowed in acquiescence
each half the circle

leaving me
forever marked
by your intent


I would only
love you a little

the space a violet
needs to bloom

a puddle
scarcely big enough
for a tadpole to swim

the tiny breath of air
meandering to Mexico
under a Monarch’s wings

metaphors and similies

To me, you are

warm rain
sweeping through
the barren desert

a fine mist seeping
into freshly turned
rich dark earth

fine chocolate
melting on my tongue
decadent and indulgent

the fire well stoked
hot in the early hours
of a bitterly cold morn

kisses brushed
softly across
the nape of my neck

tiny dust motes
basking golden in the sun
when before
they had passed unnoticed

like these moments,
I love you


The first snow fell this morning,
while I was busy
making the kids breakfast,
preparing for the day.

It changed the look
of the landscape,
covering over
still-green grass,
the muddied spots,
making shrubs and
forgotten tools
into unfamiliar objects.

The clean brightness
made walking difficult,
my steps uncertain,
known paths treacherous,
and obstacles hidden.
Tentative forays
into new places
ended with cold, wet feet
and only a little
noticeable progress.

When the snow melts
from the heat of morning’s sun,
does the ground have
a new perspective,
or underneath
is it still all the same?

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