Best wishes for the new year my friends, see you all again in 2011!


Leaders.

when people
turn and walk away
they follow

Is this sedoka, or simply a doublet?
__It is accepted practice today... that, haiku written in English needn't follow the 5-7-5 syllable count; isn't it true then, that English written sedoka should be subject to the same sort of acceptance... veering from the 5-7-7... 5-7-7 syllable count?

__Seen this morning, three whitetail deer... feeding on acorns found under the snow cover.


whitetails
in the morning's snow
a watcher
footmarks
at this acorn feast
the squirrel

Natural snow flakes... passing through an artificial light.

__A busy family week; within, and from our belief... Kathy and I
wish you all... A Very Merry Christmas! _m


shooting stars
in the shore-side flurry
a street lamp

Each word, a snowflake; from last winter's scribble book.


wordfall
within each drift
the poet

Nimbus

Departure #5


He was Havasupai and knew the desert's indifference toward life, yet, he was willing to test his heritage in this desert's cruelty; with the rising sun at his back, he stepped into the vile sands.

__This journey was his chosen trial... a crossing of "El mal pais" as the Mexicans called this place... to the river that marked this desert's edge as it snaked its way beneath the western hills... where the sand burned its way into the mountains feet. Poised there, these mountains laughed at such foolish journeys of such foolish men, and this traveler sensed their laughter but ignored that flouting cackle. As he walked on, he knew he'd reach the far edge if one gnawing need could be met... sweet water to allow his folly to reach a kind end.
__At noon of the third day, there were but six more miles of sand and grit, and the paradox of this sun that brutally parched his hide while it aptly served as his guide to the west. But he had lost his balance of thought, and his vision became his enemy by joining forces with this desert's sea of shimmering images. His moccasins became allies of this sand, faltering and stumbling and interferring with his progress across the dusty waves; as his power bled away, the Havasupai spoke with the spirits of the desert__ ancesters that had traveled here, and had mastered this test, in that time just after, the time before time.
__The Havasupai's stumbling vision drew him to an odd and puzzeling place, the magic sight of a pool that lay in this trickery of the desert's sands. Water, a tantalizing comedy that touched his stinging feet. "Water?" He wondered? He formed his mistrusted sight, into a distrusted word that he spat into the foul air of this less trusted desert. But hope knelt him. He cupped and reached his hands into an illusion; he prayed that a spirit sip might rise free of this untruth, and soothe the truth of his thirst.
__Suddenly, snarled words ruptured the desert's hum, and framed in that aging day's sun, a ghostly silhouette seethed, "You cannot drink of this water! It is mine! Through all time I've kept it from thieves and plunderers and mis-begotten wanderers, such as you, that test this desert's sand! I have the only right to the life of this water. This is the only liquor between you and your death dance, and you'll not steal this water from me!"
__"Surely you'd not miss the one sip I would take." The indian tried to reason. "One sip would be such a small loss to this queer pool. Perhaps you'll drink of it yourself and travel with me to the mountains__ just one sun to the west; there a river floods with all the worlds water__ for all the world to drink!"
__"No! You'll not drink," the silhouette bellowed, "and I'll not travel with you, to leave my wealth laid open to the gypsies that drift through my desert's frozen time! Go from here! Leave my pool to me, and this desert's spinning sands!"
__The Havasupai levered his body forward, and again pursed his hands. Slowly he streached into the vague... trembling and uncertain, he reached into that vaporous and truthless promise. Sputtering broke the silence, and the Havasupai quickly recoiled at that repulsive and recognizable sound. Sweet water, ruptured by a putrid stream as it cut through its growing and frothen circle. With his emptying insult, the silhouette had fouled his pool with the venom of his arrow.
__The Havasupai withdrew his still dry hands, rose from his knees and stood into the salt of his disbelieving eyes, and through clenched teeth he spoke, "I pray your facelessness remains with you and floods your dreamtime! Spirits condemn the faceless!" As his words struggled across his leathered lips, he turned away and chose a consequence much wiser than the impulse of vengeance. He rejoined his test, the journey to the mountanins... and the river.
__Steps passed under him, and with each dusty measure he pondered the sightlessness of the silhouette's reason. "Soiling all that was his... to keep just one sip from me? Greed plagues us, and we foul our lives with decisions sired by the panic of loss. Cursed greed, that parasite infests us all as we gamble in the games of tomorrows... that may never come!"

Thunder_!

__Shafts of lightning shattered the dust, and drumming above the desert sands their throbbing burst the grainy air. They summoned the Indian's eyes back to the soured pool and the silhouette's vacant soul.
__Blackened clouds spooled above the pool, and the silhouette had thrust his arms upward into the churning vapors. He had plunged his hands into the bowles of that seething soup; in that lancing light and pounding thunder, he chanted his pagan drone. He became the storm's rage, he forged and carved, he had created the storm. He was the sculptor of this tempest, the tempest was he. He was the conjured gale, that wore a haloed mask.
__Spinning free of the pool, slung away by the silhouette's wizardry, the Nimbus followed the ordained. By each step, by every new hollow in the sand, this Nimbus traced the Havasupai's footfalls and gnawed its way across the dunes. The Nimbus found the Havasupai's soul, hovering above his conciousness.
__This Nimbus of the storm... this totem of the Havasupai's spirit ancesters from that time before time... were freed from their eternal cave. Ghosts of his forefathers burst open their spirit flesh to rain a moments life on their withered son. Before moonrise he reached the mountains that laughed, and the river that rimed this deserts western edge. Done was his test.

A single question rose above an unanswerable mass, and of that kaleidoscopic tumbling behind his eyes, the Havasupai asked the spirits of that rising moon.
"Who?"

__Last winter at our pond... and that summer's nest filled with snow, still lashed to the Holly's branches.


holly tree
in the snowy wind
birds nest

Some changes.


this wreath
pearled with new snow
a bell

__For 'Dickie,' rest his soul; I repeated (lied) to my Granddaughter... Dickie's often told thought... now said in haiku.


big dipper
fills with this night's snow
right side up

__Kelly M., I thank you for the 'woodsmoke' post; it brought me back to pond side, where the summer sunsets often introduce the moon.


woodsmoke
sunset points to the moonrise
this spire

__A morning's freezing rain, the crows argue over which bough is theirs; a pine tree umbrella. (?)


sleet falls
perching crows debate
this pine

__This... a scribbling from mid December, 2008; each story may simply melt away.


new snow
words in a drift
that form a fresh story
changing with every young eyed breeze
readers

Thanks, Jens... moonlight.


overcome
within this wall's shadow
heartbeats

Kin-met

Departure number 4:
__Plausible: the sailors of this cosmos may someday meet... our kin.


Grinding.
Beyond any conscience but their own,
The seas milled rocks into sand's surrender,
But not the sailor.
Wandering through the vague,
Questioning reason, mariners risked mortality
By chalanging this covenant:
Scholars of this cosmos, taught of life
That ceased at the horizon...
In ignorance the mariners sailed
To meet the scholar's error.

__Oceans did not spill over the edge,
__And thought, woven above the scholar's
__Sphere of liquid rule...
__Taunted wonder, and called to
__This sunset's compass,
__Those that would inquire.

__Time didn't spill over the horizon,
__It peeled back, revolving
__And returning as the global seas;
__In contrary eddies,
__Time followed the tides,
__To solve the riddles tomorrow may ask.

Tutored
That life ends at this atmosphere's horizon,
The sailors of these deeper seas
Challenge this doctrine among the stars,
And there, to learn of time's secrets
In words spoken... by Kin-met.

Lazy circles; yes, I know it's hunting, but I often envision the "Contrary."


this hawk
seeks a leafless homestead
crossroads

Veterens day.


wall of names
in this empty space
unknown

Enriched color... by the new rain; a second stanza added... call it what you will. A sedoka purist would suggest, 'it is not', thus, the space.


morning rains
to this wan brown leaf
new amber

blue jays
discuss this cold rain
each drop

There comes a time... .


steps back
into the swollen shadows
this calm

Subway Hero

Departure number 3:
__I wandered off into another [more wordy] realm; friends, I hope you like this glut of words, sincerly, _m



I had been there many times before,
And shrank in the clash of it all;
Breathing in the smells and sights...
Of this cavern, this grimy hall.

The stench of countless, rushing trains,
Burned rubber and electric sweat;
Pulsing through this living cell...
In foulest, dust beset.

Above the grinding , toneless clatter,
A lowley voice was heard;
Cutting through the screeching din...
Saying but, a single word.

"Repent." did cough and blubber through,
His spirit sodden lips;
A broken, beaten, filthy beast...
That spat through lathered drips.

"Repent," he wheezed, and again that word,
Echoed within this oily hall;
And every step he took my way...
Spurred my memory's crawl.

"Repent," he neighed as he reached my stand,
Whiskey bleeding from each eye;
He caught my gaze, then hid his face...
And spewed his crippled sigh.

"Repent," he mumbled, then spilled away,
Wretched, reeking and worn;
Sliding off in greasy steps...
He vanished in his scorn.

Stunned, I followed those sodden eyes,
For what was there was known;
And I listened for his single word...
"Repent," this drunkard's droan.

I searched and scratched through noise and filth,
To find his wasted soul;
I rummaged every crack and den...
And every wretched hole.

I found my kin, in that muck and lice,
Curled in his fetal ball;
And I prayed he seemed again to me...
As he did when, I was small.

He waved me off, and spat out words,
Preaching, I was in err;
That I should turn, and step away...
And leave him to his lair.

"Not a brother," he said, was he to me,
Don't sorrow for my fall;
Go you back, to your life of ease...
I'm no brother, after all.

Go quickly to your wife and young,
And leave me to my cave;
A rotting soul I am, you've seen...
Just searching for my grave."

Against my will, I honored his,
Stealing courage, I stepped my length;
And I heard his anxious and whispered plea...
"Brother, please leave with me your strength."
~
I've returned, uncountable times,
To this subway's sour gloom;
To search for he, within his beast...
Before he found his tomb.

But not the word, nor the sight I'd see,
Within this cavern's sore;
Of brother, or beast, or broken man...
That drunkard's soul once more.

Then one day, in horror's grasp. "Repent,"
I heard, as I spun about;
To the light of my brother's eyes...
This beast he had cast out!

"When last we met," his shining words,
"You gave as I did plea;
You took your leave, but left your strength...
And with it, I burst free.

This was my grave, this subway vault,
And hope in your leaving fell;
To the strength you left as you stepped away...
Your faith has fought my spell.

I pass your faith in fearless fight,
To my brothers barrowed near;
That they may broach their hollow hell...
And slay the beasts they fear!"
~
When I return to this evil place,
To search within its reek;
I listen for his single word, his hymn...
Is the sound I seek.

"Repent," burns through that mortal clamor,
And with this messaged call;
My brother is again to me...
The Hero, when I was small.

Cold air... the water a little warmer, and the ducks passing by.


fog swirls
above this mornings pond
duck sounds

__Halloween. Through the imprinted fears of all the -bad- things that could happen... it is still a 'nite-rite' of childish joy, even for we... of age. _m


a candle
shows this pumpkins smile
harvests

__Laziness causes me to post this Cinquain that bubbled up, and out of Talon's good work, her post of Monday the 25th.


cold hands
blood of worry
flows true from yours to mine
yet when this crisis comes to close
warm smiles

Brown, and dry triangles stand in the sun, the pawns.


teepees
cornstalks of this harvests field
checkmate

__Some 'I-net' problems... it comes and goes; next week, a new provider of that service. >'Bong, bong, plunk!'<


falling acorns
pumpkins make this hollow sound
first frost

Quiet walk.


queen ann's lace
above these fallen leaves
partridges

Coming soon... Halloween.


dark walk
along this knotted path
pumpkins

... and the sun keeps moving south... further shortening our northern days.


southern sunset
burns through this darkness
tunnels

The change; a summer vine had knitted itself into the pine's limbs.


red leaves
wrap this evergreen
a vine

As inspired by Lorraine's post... seen on October 9th. _m


at night
the moon streatches my shadow
this pond

"Abstract Deductions." Yes, Dev, your "wayside chapel."


a spire
reaches above the soils
this traveler

Something dreamy about reading by firelight.


fireplace
with this smokey book
a tea cup

__Thursday was wild and windy at the pond; a summer's bird nest had 'fall'en into our Chrysanthemums.
__October third, our thirtieth year of complete and loving compatibility!
............. Such a very Happy Anniversary, Kathy!


fall winds
on this bed of mums
bird nest

Rain drops assume a different sound as the pass thru... the changing leaves.


autumn
changed their sound
rain drops

Soon to be cast.


crows debate
from tree to tree to tree
voters poll

Tomorrow night, the moon is full; I... watch the birds!


full moon
this owl shows its shadow
naked limbs

I'd invite you all to visit Jen's photo haiga blog... Ashi-2, as listed to the right. _m


oarlocks
screech with each stroke
this seagull

The flower cups the rain... until.


soft rain
this flower holds the damp
a bow

The black and white of it, as the harvest has begun.


cold fog
floats above this warm bog
a crow

__There are some flowers that only bloom at night, thus, they take advantage of that night's flies to procreate. "Shame on me; a metaphor... in something I've labled -haiku-."


light fades
beyond these sunset hills
night blossoms

__My friends... see you next week; to be more accurate, from the pond I may be able to 'pop in' from time to time. I thank you all! _m


night songs
chime through the dark
this clock

In a few weeks, the cranberry harvest will begin; though they are 'bogs' the roads that encircle them... are dusty.


golden rod
this dusty bog road
crows call

The tide; the tailor.

each wave
an ocean's stitch
hemming our seas and land
thus bound as one our tender earth
the tide

The rain has blessed us; this first seen at... Wonder Haiku Worlds, 2007.


rains visit
I listen to your song
old friend

A reaction, an instant's echo left at John's... Zen Speug; a reflection of his good haiku. _m


scarecrow
standing at the field's edge
a bus stops

A night at the pond, the fish never sit still.


fish jump
this summer sitting still
a flat pond

Sneeze

Departure: number 2. A Saturday night two summers ago; an observation, with apologies to those that may find my view, offensive.


I really wanted asparagus tonight. Steamed. Barely cooked, bright, crisp and lightly doused with a lemon butter sauce and a light dusting of freshly ground pepper.
__I stood patiently waiting for a shopper to make her choice. Aha... which bundle of asparagus would suit her purpose? Then it happened, she sneezed_! Once! Twice, and a third time, each sneeze a direct hit to those dazzling greens_!
__Suddenly the pre-packaged green beans definitely seemed more appetizing, and certainly a more practical option; the same sauce would do nicely.
__Going about my business, I collected a few potatoes and the unsalted butter, a lemon, pork chops, and a few other essentials needed for the evening's picnic. Too, I remembered those small packets of kleenex Kathy requested; I checked out.
__Once outside, I lit my -pipe- and from behind me came the roar! "Oh yuk! Phew! Cigarette smoke! P.U.! That stinks! You are polluting MY air!."
__Guiltily, I stuck my pipe in my pocket, and snapped my head back to see that person frantically waving her hand in front of her puckered face, whisking away that fictitious fluid cloud of smoke that she insisted had completely enveloped her!
__"Oh, I'm so sorry!" I said. Reaching into my bag I found one of those kleenex packets, and handing her a pouch; I continued, "when next you need to sneeze, you might think of using one of these, and perhaps you might even consider turning your head away? And oh, I do so hope you enjoy your asparagus."
__I stepped away from that look of confusion and bursting disbelief, those wordless questions that suddenly wrapped her self-assured face, a face now seemingly so... unaware.
__Puffing, and guiltily boorish as she may have reasoned, I inwardly smiled and enjoyed my grand lapse of civility... I slid away, further and more deeply into my depraved elation. Ah... such splendid vengeance.

None of the elite purists, with their favored agendas, are so chaste and over-rich in their own virtue, that some benefit can't be realized by a terse, and timely observation.
_m

Unless I can hook up from the pond... see you all Sunday night! _m


northern lights
this night sky glimmers
mosquitoes

Home from our pond... 'till Wednesday night.


this sunset
just a few words away
the campfire

I'd rather be hated for who I am, than loved for whom I am not;
I'd rather be loved for who I am, than hated for whom I am not.


wake me
I walk this path
alone and quite slowly
fearing I'll disturb someone else
a trance

Breakfast rain.


this rainfall
sizzles through the leaves
eggs fry

__From my scribble pad of last Saturday night as we watched the red cresent moon setting; and the doves will coo at night.


moonset
beyond the west shore pines
doves coo

__Silence, may seem "indifference;" silence, though, allows the listener of that silence... to reach their own resolution... without the harmful imprint of the "silent's" thoughts and words.
__I sincerly wish you a very Happy Birthday, Daughter Jess! Much love, Dad.


birthday
of these silent years
flowers

Echoes. Reflections; their nightly conversation, in a looking glass.


frog talk
in this quiet night
a mirror

I often visit "Tinywords," there is some fine short poetry there, by those that are; I am not.
__I link the word -poses- with the Great Blue Heron, their grace.


daybreak
this great blue poses
a sundial

....."pistol journalism"

__This 'title-phrase', as I see it, was written by Louis Vance in his loosely historic novel "The Dead Ride Hard," first published in 1926. I draw a simile between that phrase, and politics.
__Oh... some 'humor' attempted here! _m


politics
spewing the schemer's jumble
these grackles

... and last night at the pond.


clouds weep
this catbird still sings
thunder bass

This, a comment, left at friend Nora's blog.


at my ear
this mosquito...
spilled wine

This... was left as a comment at Talon's good blog.


a wing
into another summer
the bee

Hollow Lies

A departure: a short story that may reflect the thoughts of a Patuxet clansman.

__I looked into the boy's face and saw tears... coursing down those dirty cheeks. "Boy, what are those tears?"

__"These tears question my value to me, and my clan. Old one, hidden among your years you must surely have known these doubts, and found the answers to the troubles of the young; having found those answers, please share them with me and my impatience."
__"Boy, I fear I've frogotten the troubles of a child... as a child sees their troubles. What, can your cares be?"

__"Elder, I have tried to be what the clan wants me to be, to be where I am wanted, and not where... I am not. I have been silent, I have spoken only when spoken to, and then only in the Spirit's truth. I have tried to make my clan proud of me, and me... proud of me; I've cared enough to do these things, but these tears still trace my failures, and my failures seem all that matter. Old one, to unravel these streaks of tears... I ask three questions. Will I ever please myself? Will I ever please my elders, and why are my tries... overlooked?"
__"Child, always be pleased with your attempts to please; If your unnoticed tries to please are your greatest triumphs, that joy is a gift you can give to yourself, and then you will see the sum of those tears fade as you follow that joy into new tomorrows. But first, you must see that tomorrows contentment can never be yours if you linger... within yesterdays unanswerable questions."

I awoke.

__Within that instant's kef of a vanishing dream... I saw the rusting tears of the boy that I once was, and I knew I had told myself... Hollow Lies.
_m

The color, the name... and a child smiles.


tiger lilies
open to a new day's sun
this swallow tail

From last summer.


keeled minds
sail quiet seas
courses of a given chart
this ruddered imagination
explores

Last Saturday even'n... at the pond.


stars hang
in this spider web
a night's dew

I guess everyone knows... why the cat ran.


a cat ran
this dog stands at rigid pose
on three legs

__In, and beyond these rapid and incalculable changes that erode what we once knew, I admire the changeless. I'm privileged... to have been able to watch the Catbird hatchlings change, in that changeless scheme of creation; today I smiled broadly at this sight... an empty nest.


a change
the catbirds take to wing
changeless

An instant's Cinquain echo... left at Cynthea's blog, in response to her good post. _m


my soul
above the flame
from out of this smoke reaches
grasping at every memory
ashes

Twice a day I check the nest; she senses I am of no harm.


catbird...
I watch her nested young
this trust

__Those that know a little of me, know how enamored I am, by those things left behind; found in my imagination are the stains of the sweat and blood that graced the toil of these people... unknown. __Stonewalls, abandoned foundations, crumbled barns... all, monuments to their builders. _m


stonewalls
these lines of once...
a dove coos

This, as seen in Ambrosia Edition 2.


blue jays clamor
in this noonday sun
the brook's echo

__An abrupt stop, and flashers; the driver, my wife quick to the rescue, carried the turtle across the road to its destination... the pond.


this turtle
plants its yearly seeds
a walk back

__From Milton's Masque 'Comus,' circa 1634, a few of the early lines that seem to fit today's life__ as I had read them:

"Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot
-Which men call Earth, and, with low-thoughted care,
-Confined and pestered in this pinfold here,
-Strive to keep up a frail and feverish being,
-Unmindful of the crown that Virtue gives,"


virtue sought
we frail beings...
a breath

__Home from our pond; this from last night as we sat on the dark deck... and watched the spider's work.


candles
light this darkness
a spider

__I saw, a few days back, this photo-haiku at Devica's blog: "Deserted," was the name of her post.
__It's strange that a link there... had taken me back to the Connecticut town where I had been raised, and a school through which I had passed.



long pathway
follow these slippery stairs
careful steps

__Once in a while I actually like something I've written, and I'm not above 're-posting.' This I scribbled several years back, and posted here 'bout a year ago. It was my last 'butterfly' haiku, and since, I've used the common, or the biological name of the butterfly seen.


listen...
above the silent flowers
a butterfly

__One of the charmers of our summer pond-life, the chipmunks, always provide evidence of their surprising intellect, and leave us... smiling at their antics. But one fellow last summer, failed to solve this 'carry away' dilemma... the 'stuffing' of his cheeks. (chips?)

a chipmunk
fails to run off with his prize
this potato chip

Their colors.


a lilac bush
smiles into this new day
purple finches

Yesterday's storm... lightning, and heavy hail.


thunder storm
sleet clatters with the lightning
this pond boils

Reflections, Earth Day_.


trees
on this pond
stand above

Happy Birthday LL! 51 red balloons!


one breath
the steps of learning began
first day

__The Nemaskets, a clan of the Wampanoags, used the phrase -the moon of leaves- and that, it is said, was the month of June; perhaps it was a reference to the first spouts of Mondomin, or corn.
__Now, the tree leaves become full during the first week of May, and May's moon I see as "this moon of leaves." An entry in my scribble book, from last May.


warm night
this moon of leaves...
pond frogs

a dog howls
its forecast across this pond
heavy winds

__An early season night at our pond; as the robin's breast blends with the sunset, the owls begin their nightly calls... and at ease, the robin adds its final chirps of its day.


sunset
this treed robin joins
an owl's call

own the wild
this bear follows a trail
without cages

This Cinquain... I left as a comment at Ashi Words, I'll add that -> Ashi 2, as listed in the links on the right, is Jen's very interesting and participative haiga blog. Well worth the visits!


I write
and of these words
that fall out of my mind
I keep some that I never said
not said

How slowly things change, and yet, how quickly.
__From creaking ice to this greening underbrush... but a moment in time. Just yesterday we were fighting snow and frozen pathways, confined in our boots and parkas, hoods and gloves, the only sounds were the howl of the winds and driven snows.
__Today the tree buds are swollen, the birds are calling, and the squirrels, the chipmunks and rabbits are tending to their awakening, and the Sun warms our world.
__The flowers are smiling; its time to put the snow-shovels away.


green and blue
beyond this winter's bounds
flowers smile

__Yesterday, the forsythia bloomed, and in last night's warm air the peepers sang.


x marked frogs
these peepers in the night
love songs

So often, in spite of our carelessness, nature overcomes... .


green sprout
bursts through this plastic bag
a new flower

Good Friday.
__To those that follow these holy days, I wish you the best of weekends; to those that do not, I wish you the best of weekends! _m


midday shower
dust washes from the leaves
humming birds

Quincy Market's, sidewalk performers.


pigeons dance
a violin sings their waltz
smell of rain

An Austrailian oddity, camouflage.


south coast
these Leafy Seadragons swim
the mimes

A repetitive parallel:
Sometimes, I need to step back... to see where I wish to go.


look beyond
see of that pebble
this ruby

wild turkeys
strut across this muddy path
the owners

Sometimes, I need to step back... to see where I wish to go.


warm new rain
beats this trash can lid
a crocus blooms

I referred to her silently as "Shelly," but, of course, not in class.
__It was 1959 and Shelly was an elderly, High School English teacher; as a sophomore, with extreme misfortune I was assigned to her class. She pulled and pulled, and I hated every moment. As a Junior I was in her English Literature class, I hated every moment. Senior year? I chose to enroll in Shelly's Creative Writing course, an optional class, and I hated every moment.
__Shelly never taught me how to think as she might think, or to dream as she might dream, to write as she would write, or to understand as she understood. She taught me to think as I would think, to dream as I would dream, to write as I would write, and to understand as I would know.
__ She once said: "A poet can only put marks on the page, it is the reader that must interpret the dream."
__Shelly was a teacher, long before the word 'imprint' became a synonym for 'educate'.



the teacher
pulls the student from the root
a tree spreads

For and old friend.


old walls talk
cracks and dust that speak of time
well worn shoes

No inner voice... to point the way.


crossroads
to choose another course
a voiceless owl

"Lost in Spring Dreams" You are missed.


ripples traced
across this silent pond
ducklings

This, is an echo left at Sandy's 'Four Winds Haiga' blog, in complement to her fine post of 3/6/2010.


twilight robin
his breast is the sunset
a night song fades

Moving on...


the sun peers
through this frigid window
a door opens

"All in all... your just another brick in the wall." Hold your youngsters close.


young people
of those that wander astray
society's claws

__Our granddaughter became seven, in October 2009; this was she, frolicking across the lawn just after a July afternoon rain, 2007. __Remember when we... ?


bare feet patter
across this dampened grass
a child laughs

The sleet, rattling at the window, sure sounds like popcorn poppin!


sleet rattles
against these window panes
popcorn