Our first seasonal visit to 'our pond;' the gate hinges offered their hellos.

a greeting
these rusty gate hinges
snow melt

Actually new, but from an old memory recently awakened by a post at Warren's blog, Crow and Moon... as listed to the right.

his ashes spread
among these mountain rocks
laurel blossoms

of this old letter
found in my memory's storm
turn the hour glass

Could one believe: political rhetoric is (are) "snow flakes," soon to melt away and be forgotten... 'til it snows again?

fallen snow
hides this day's politics
a deep blanket

To DeviKa. and of her most recent post;  best wishes.

this new bird
born among the borning leaves
fresh sounds

This, a recent comment I left at Bill's blog... the contrary views; black and white.

a crow
debates with this blizzard
black and white
 

Actually?
__Twenty four inches of snow, trees down, wires down, no power... thus, no heat, no internet, no cooking, no tea; two days. A ruffle feathered Blue-jay, nature is a wonderous life-form, is it not? __Now, we are 'Hotel-ing' it at a relative's home in another town, and as I said (my comment on the last post,)  "Crocuses... 'my wishful thinking'. "


snow falls
these over laden tree limbs
a blue jay

 

Back to the Crocus, Bill;  between the icicle and this pointed sprout... a duel?

the last icicle
looms above this sprout
a crocus bursts
 

Often.
I speak my mind; therefore, I have very little to say.

say little
of these seeds in your mind 
unsown

Soon... .

snow walk
a nearing sun
tells this weaving pathway
thoughts of green on this icy trail
bird songs
 
 

... and this lovely comment left by assneg on my 1-17-13 post,

early spring
among last years leaves
shoots of ivy
 

... and her haiku, inspired my echo.

a season brews
steeping in the leaves of fall
the crocus

 

A very eventful period these few weeks... holidays, birthdays, death days.

__Sisters, always together, chose to peacefully leave... during the same week.

Sue, the elder, was born in: 1908, and passed, on  1-10-2013;
Helen, the younger, my Dear Aunt, was born:   9-13-1912, and passed, on 1-3-2013


one hundred years
stepping to another lea
the sisters


... and a fine humored echo from Tikkis, his homeland Pub,
the -Bambu Garden-.

"Bambu Garden
 booking a free table
 for August 2045"

__With positive out-look, as we take our steps into this new year...  I wish you all a Great, and Grand, 2013! _m


soul birds soar
and scan the far horizon
new time's wing

*

a toast
as lemmings dive off this cliff
I'll pour

 

__Respecting your belief, but from my belief, I extend to you all... my wishes for a Joyful Christmas Season, and a New Year full of New Happiness.

__Here, can we see the bow's ribbon moving in the wind... on the other side of the window... as it tempts that curious kitten?


this kitten
pats the frosty window
the wreath's bow

tears flood
young lives are stolen away
these souls

for the children
we cry in tears of blood
silent drummers 

Departure 15

This from one of my scribble books, the Winter of 2003; sorry for its length folks, it is a tad longer than my normal... three lines. 

The Chair                                      

          The day was cold, bitter and biting; it drilled into my marrow and burned the edges of my ears as they listened to the snow growling under my feet. This noontime activity was an adjustment for my comfort, I, forced to take lunch away from home. Errands, needing to be done, have a way of becoming annoying interruptions to comfortable... life patterns.

I needed to escape cold and snow, and stepped into a market’s deli, a rest, a sandwich and coffee, I thought. There, there is an area set aside with tables and chairs and an open view of the hustle and bustle in this up-scale, food mart. My grand plan was to gain some warmth, enjoy my lunch as I rested, and to remain hidden away... unseen by the other warmers and eaters.

Two sorts of chair are available to the diner, the first, an attractive but very uncomfortable iron chair, common to gardens, patios and lawns. “Occasional,” describes these chairs. My choice would be to use one of these waffle bottom torturers, on only the most rare “occasions.”  The second sort, though institutionally bland and boring, featured a deep cushion and proved to be a support much more kind to the sitter’s physical details and comfort. I, of course, chose that softer chair.

At first bite of my sandwich, an old man tottered my way. He very deliberately stabbing the rubber tip of his cane into the terra-cotta tiles on the deli’s floor, he carefully choose where to place each of his purposeful, and painful footsteps. A Boston tabloid was stuffed under his right arm, and in that hand, as free as it was, a cup of coffee sloshed about. Grimacing, frowning, and assuming an overall look of displeased intensity, he surveyed the tables and chairs, searching for the perfect spot to sit... and not enjoy... whatever it was he seemed determined to... not enjoy.

Finding an appropriate table, the old man claimed possession by plopping down his coffee and newspaper. Then he plodded off toward the condiments; his lips pursed, and wrinkled into a rigid bunch like a tightened tobacco pouch. As I watched, the old man gathered up packets of sugar and a wad of napkins, turning, he retraced his steps toward his chosen table but stopped at an empty padded chair. Stuffing the napkins between his left hand and the cane’s grip, he captured the softer chair’s backrest with his gnarled right hand. The old man resumed his task, while dragging the chair, and stabbing his cane.

At his return, the old man quickly brushed the table clear with the bunched-up napkins, and stooping as low as he could, with remarkable vigor, he scoured clean the softer seat, and adjusted the chair to a precise angle that only his experience would have known. Then, against what I had assumed was his plan, he sat himself on an iron chair. As he sipped his coffee, and mouthed the words while he read, I wondered about the dance I had seen. His reasoning, soon became clear.

Above the rasping clatter and the squealing market-cart wheels, a melodic voice carved through the din, “There, there you are, Love!”  Singing out her words, she deftly carried a tray of soup and sandwiches toward her life’s mate,  happily, anticipating their reunion. 

Clear now, the softer chair was for her, not him.  But in a way it was for him, satisfying his innate need… his desire to care for her… just as she cared for him.

As they sat and talked, she spoke about the winter of forty-six, the first full winter they had after the war, and the winter of sixty-five, with Billy came home from college to spend the season’s holidays.      

“Oh boy, it was cold those winters,” she said, and agreed by the shiver of his memory, displayed by the shudder of his shoulders.

“And how we laughed,” he chuckled, “durin’ Christmas, of fifty-two, I think it was, when Billy an’ his hound….  What was his name?”

 “Homer. It was Homer,” she offered.

“Yup, that was it… Homer. When Billy took Homer down the hill on his sled, an’ they plowed into that snowdrift… gosh, I never saw a dog carry on so… slippin’, an’ a slidin’, an’ fallin’, an’ shakin’.  Runnin’ for the house!  I recall it took a week or more before we stopped havin’ to drag Homer outside for his walks!” 

“And oh boy, didn’t Homer avoid goin’ near that sled for the rest of the winter,” she, speaking through her thrilled laugh, of that pleasant memory.

“The coldest though, was in sixty eight,” he stuttered, “ the da day we said goodbye to Billy when he left for Vietnam…”  A malignant silence occupied the air; quickly, she pulled him back to today, and the morning's breakfast they had shared.

“ Duh! I wish ya could have seen the, stupid look on your face when you spilled your tea on my toast and eggs this mornin’_!” 

“Hah-hah!” he jousted, aware of her ploy, and he squirmed in his iron chair, in a valiant but loosing effort to convince some of his circulation to return.

       I sat, listening to their love’s stories, unashamed of my intrusion into this snapshot of their shared lifetime, I became richer; without guilt, I absorbed their memories.

       Bundled up in thought, I stepped out into a  day... far warmer now than it was... just moments before. Or, perhaps, was it a lifetime before?

       I called my wife… just to say hello, just to let her know… .

A quiet night for K. and I.


fresh logs
this new light crackles
a wine glass

Smile! Some visit a plastic surgeon to achieve a face lift; in my case I'd need a "fork-lift."
__This, from one of last winter's scribble books.


white tail
at this acorn pile
the watcher

__This did not post as it was written just moments ago... as an appreciative comment at Haikud'aile... with my appologies Daniele, I will post this here.
>Some see nothing, others create; always, a dream fills the emptiness<


footsteps
on this empty pathway
reflections

From an old scribble book, April 8th., 2004.

a rooster's
opinion of the morning
new leaves


roll cast
behind the rock's eddy
trout rings

And again, to the real victims of that storm... best wishes!
__It seems, in most recent times that, of that that I've attempted, many "thats" have ended in failure; oh well, such is life. I need a sentry.


this soldier
on guard in the ranks  
a book's page

Sandy buzzed through, and kidnapped the 'lectricity; Kathy and I, yesternight.


the modern
abducted by the sandy storm
lamp light


checkers
kinging in this darkness
candle games

__Coastal brooks are controlled by the tides. High tide slows the brook's flow, but in the tides ebb a brook pool can lower by several inches.
 __ Envision a cold winter day, that thin formed ice around the brook pool's stone, and that ice clinging to the stone as it looses support from brook pool's water.


ice halos
encircle this brook pool's stones
low tide

We (I) change, as do the seasons.


this crow changes
flying in deeper shadows
a rusty leaf

__ At 'our pond,' we most often use our old fashioned glass percolator; so well do we truely enjoy the difference... that at this seasonal close of the 'camp,' our coffee pot has gone home with us.


a smell of coffee
lingers in this morning air
the glass top rattles

31 years... today,  happy anniversary, Kathy!
__One morning, many, many years ago now, I stepped out of bed... immediately Kathy rolled into that newly vacant spot. I asked "are you cold ?" Without opening her eyes, Kathy simply said, "no, it just smells like you."  That moment, never forgotten. _m


each morning
her new day's gift
that smile

An uncomfortable day at our pond, and yet we still dream.


autumn rain
drips from the changing leaves
this clock

It could happen.


cranberries
floating on this harvest bog
a crayfish

From two nights past, the storm... .


in this wind
the swamp birches dance
golden rod

To a friends joy, we welcome you, "Max!"


a birth
out of this cracked egg
sunrise


And from my scribble book, a few weeks past, and a rare -adjusted- comment.


bouquet ribbon
these black-eyed susans
a spider web

__Tall grass waves in the wind, and the long parallel stems  seem... as harp strings; a wind's song.


grass harp
of this maiden lea
the wind

Masked by the fog; the heron.


late day fog
veils our silent pond
a great blue

Summer's  night.


winds meet
mosquitoes in that eddy
chalk dust

Quick stop at home.
__My nine year old Granddaughter, Maya, loves haiku; this is another of her's. It has not been rewritten.
 _m


water flower
floating on the diamond
pink and blue

__I felt the guilt; it had been too long since I traveled to my homeland, the Berkshire Foothills, and my needed visit to my Mother's and Father's grave site. A busy but satisfying week.

__I stepped to their marker, and before them I sat to my heals and reached out to touch their carved names. As the morning sun painted my reflection on their glassy stone, it shown back with the image of their faces. "We've not forgotten you," they said, and I answered, "nor have I,  you." 
__I left my two cents... well hidden there; the first penny, minted the year of my Father's passing, the second... the year that my Mother followed.

new 
the fresh cut grass
morning breeze

__I turned and took the first steps away, but in glancing back I sensed I was not  leaving, I was walking to... to count many more steps.

the doves
their counted steps
many more

I just can't roll over__  and tap the 'Doze' button.
-Several of my posts have been at: 33 minutes past the hour. (?)-


mocking bird
the morning alarm clock
no doze button

An evening at the pond; this,  an old one... may have been seen before. 


goldfinch
this rocking chair squeeks
each page

A law of physics renewed:
Every action, has an equal and opposite... criticism.
__Back to our pond, see you soon. _m


night breeze
in this dancing candle flame
a spider web

This morning's sunrise at our pond.


the crown
on this highest stone
daybreak

__Nature's tools: Tools, used in the gathering of food and those used as weapons...  protection in that fight for life. It would require hours of searching and listing; from the bee's stinger to the wolves' teeth, from the deer's antlers, to this hawk's claws. The list can go on and on,  in Nature's War of Survival; a most natural plan.
__Just a thought. _m


this red tail circles
in its curling route above
silence in the brush

Departure 14

__I first tried to discover  the -Secrets of the Sonnet- when I was in high school; I've been struggling with that discovery... since.
__In the octet I watch his sorrow, in the sestet I see her sorrow join with his, to create the contrary.

'Found'

I stand apart, watching through your sorrow,
With tears, at the loss of a love begone.
You wander the circle, as you are drawn,
To that lonely search for your tomorrow;
With your mind so full, your heart so fallow.
In your eyes a lost hope of love's new dawn,
You silently stand, as a misplayed pawn.
This, your deep search, to forstall the barrow.

With offered touch, another's lonely goal;
I see her full glean, the deepened mire,
Beyond this surge of her lone desire.
She sends her full heart to your lonely soul,
And in joyful tone to sate your fire,
With her song of love, a steeple bell's toll.

   Devika, we have cormorants in New England too... on occasion, they -harvest- small fish from our pond, such a natural process; some local folks, once refered to them as 'Taunton Turkeys.'


cormorants
stalkers on the pond rock
hatchlings

moonlight bats 
in this forests dark
the moths

... and, Kristin,  an echo's echo.


rain drops
fill my minds dreams
a river runs

an old bridge
spans this swollen river
suns ray

At Rudi's blog, an old vinal record:


songs escape
from these tired grooves
a needle's thread

Though I know you'll not visit my blog FJS (el "Toro") I extend to you... the best of birthday wishes.


this far light
streaks across the night pond
a bull sounds

As seen at Daniele Duteil's good blog. I thank you Daniele. _m


seeds
this money of nature
a butterfly

__Kathy and I have some dear, -our pond- friends. Among them, Bob and Teresa, ("Tree" as she is called,) are celebrating two grand events... the birth of their first grand child, and today is their 34th wedding anniversary!


thirty four years
this crow and the tree
a new branch

__A refreshed view... for today's (my) sour morning's out-look, and by seeing Lorraine's recent post... came this. Thanks, LL!


tree arms
reach into the sky
a bird

__Weeping willows, with their new and tender leaves, never a tear.


weeping willows
golden waves in this breeze
noon sun

Soon, Kathy and I will be spending much of our time at -our pond- that natural haven.


our pond
with greening underbrush
the doves

We've all seen cats... stalk a shadow;  this, from last summer's scribble book.


the shadow 
caught by this stalker cat
a humming bird

Like the tea... seasons brew.


tea steeps
in this budding cup
a taste

This, I recently left as a comment on an old friend's blog. Barks?


dogwood
barks into its branches
leaves flutter

March 21st, 11pm... 64 degrees, watching this warm night


cloudy mist
fills the big dipper
tree frogs

A surprise contact between a Magyar family member and I; inspiring.


distant bridge
this far family line
a drum beat

Departure #13

Another old scribble.   _m

Style…

Style is yours, a personal sign, and
     Fashion... another’s glee.
Thus avoid the newer trends, where
    Some think you ought to be.

By melting into a reasoned blend
     Quiet... and unheeded,
Each fashion’s, tidal flood and wane,
     For you, will pass un-needed.

So set your style to fit your fashion
     Your... fashion to fit your style,
And the art of being over looked,
     Puts fashion in your smile.

The "peepers" as we call them, soon to be heard; this,  from one of my old 'scribble books.'


warm night
a page of what will be
tree frogs

A few nights ago... that dance of the northern lights.


a far dog
howls at the northern sky
night pulse

Some ways of telling time;  soon... .


pond shore
these robins and willows
a bell rings

Spring is knocking at the door... .


at the gate
spring reaches for its latch
new crocus

My meager attempt, Hungarian to English; this, from last Spring; now this corrected translation is by Iris... with my thanks! _m

napos rugyek
a reggeli to keresztul
a hattyuk


sun buds
across this morning pond
the swans

Departure # 12

__I wrote this when I was seventeen, October, 1960. I think now, we are all looking for the first two lines of the third stanza; the change cycles continue... unchanged. _m

*Rose Red Trees*

Rose red trees
Flecked with gold,
The colors of clans
From legends old.

Warmed by the sun
Through a bitter fall day,
Withered by cold
And wafted away.

Then green we see
In season's sun,
To rose red again
Life's cycle run.

Sadie Hawkins' Day,  a leap year  snow fall.


leafless trees
sift the falling snow
lonely crow

The foot hills backbone; a hawk.


red tail
over this foothill chine
a rainbow

__The good and the bad; by looking at a grand old tree, have you ever wondered what life that tree has seen? The history?


trees eyes
hidden in its rings
war years

*****

tree rings
this unread book
new sprouts

__Nearby, five modern windmills have become electriclly productive. Not finding them visually polluting, I see a certain grace in their movement... thus, I must be odd.  


windmills
as this day sun fades
a sweater

__Friends, you may be interested in a contest, this, as listed at: varientaenglezeasca.blogspot.com


looking out
this search for the green
a bird calls

From one of my 'scribble books'... to be seen again.


new buds
on this tiny branch
a pencil line

To the contrary, thus,  a positive.


trails start
new paths begin to cross
the flowers bud

The doves... shine through it all. From last summer's scribble book.


the politics
of this flock of grackles
doves whisper

The cattle know the time of day... they gather at the barn door; day's end gate.


icy fence line
they wander to the barn
day's gate

Once seen at WHW; a memory of the summer past and a thought of that to arrive.


holly tree
in this snowy wind
a bird nest

__Recently, Devica posted this quote by  Robert Lewis Stevenson, "Wine is bottled poetry."
__Then is it fair, in a contrary view to say?   "Poetry is a glass of wine."


chianti
I pour another glass
the third line

Now, I must return to the minimal.


sunlight
lingers at each day's end
sap flows

Departure #10

A 40 year old photo of my daughter Jess; she recently brought this to the light of day. Guess who it is wispering... "smile"...  into Jessica's ear!

















old memory
this kettle on the hob
warmth

I left this at our friend Tim's, Catnip bolg, he suggested I reuse it... here.


locked in
dreams search this wind
the wings

__I have an old and heavy, navy blue corduroy shirt... there's a pocket on each breast, and over all it looks as if it has had little use.  It's flaw? The button down collar is worn through at the fold. I've been looking for a replacement, but all are of lighter materials, only a few have pockets, and some with the retailer's emblem where a pocket should be (I should pay for their advertising?) None of those shirts had been made here.
__Guess what I did this morning! A seam ripper, 40 minutes and Kathy's sewing machine; thus in the old fashioned way, I managed to re-position my collar!


reverse
stitches hide the wear of time
obverse

__In my bothersome state, there are some blogs on which I cannot leave comments... the comment pages have been locking-up. As a Blog-O-Sphere illiterate, "I feel I'm out on the desert, and my only tools are... a canoe and a paddle;  sometimes its best to watch the weather, and wait for the rain."  _m


drought days
waiting for the rain
a paddle

Departure # 9

Quiet time can generate... free thought.


Ideas.
Seeds planted
By a muse's call...
Nurtured,
Weeded, pruned, urged by thought's breath
Without the restrictive rein of didactic
Demands.

Allowed.
The idea blooms...
__Nurtured, ideas ripen;
__Ignored, they sour on the vine.

A book, a glass of wine... .


quiet night
only the rocking chair's squeek
a new page

Departure #8

__Kathy is the photographer in our happy lives, she snapped this in mid-summer of 2011. Is there any wonder why we enjoy the time we spend at our pond?


this flower
in its closing beauty
the seeds

This extended thought had arisen from our friend Talon's comment of 12/29/11.


an empty chair
still looks to this warming hearth
the tea kettle

Not sadness... a remembrance, as we step toward the New Year.

__12/31/11... Thanks, friends, quickly home from our -cold- pond just to say hello... and wish you all a Happy New Year!
See you on 1-2-12. 


new frost
on these headstones
old names

Yesterday morning, as a very few snow flakes seemed to float through our 'back-space' trees, three deer were at play. Dryads.


white tails
frolic in this misty snow
free minds

My Best Christmas Wishes to you ALL!  Here a rare punctuation mark. _m 


season's change
as the cold deepens
snow fall

The services: whomever, whenever... wherever they may be.


doves gather
while hearts of like hope speak
a bell rings 

A new direction... found.


herring gull
circles in this snowfall
sun seeps

__This haiku was contributed to, and seen in the anthology,  "One Thousand Cranes" in 2009; it was scribbled during the winter of 2007.


snow fills
this cabins shattered bones
a broken tea cup

__Let's step forward, by stepping back. This, an older haiku of mine, as seen within the pages of the Wonder Haiku World's fine,  primier anthology... "Spasms of Light."


listen
among the silent flowers
a butterfly

This...  is an echo I recently left at a friends blog; I think, here, the implied time is that 'eternal' season. _m


an owl counts
when the moon catches a star
this traveler

__I am attracted by these monuments... to the toils of people long gone;  this, two winters past, a snow-field, etched by the crossing walls.


stone walls
draw square to square
snow fall

__Often, being avoided becomes a compliment; I wear the badge.


set apart
with no reseptive word
an emblem

__A special  Thanks-Giving  to all my friends, you've given (me) a lot... since this blog began.
From me... happiness and smiles to you all! _m


a wild turkey
escapes through the underbrush
this can of spam

Ahead of me, they quickly crossed the road, thus... two haiku with the effort of one.


this sunrise
melts away a night of frost
the deer move

two deer
cross my morning path
breath clouds

This Autumn day's noon at our calm pond... lunch time.


feeders
swan tails point to the sun
water rings

Memory spurred, I went to the archives:


an eclipse
I watch the moon darken
last sip of tea

With the time change, our sunrise is an hour early; the morning's first seam of this new day.


early sunrise
above the tree limb stitches
this days hem

__I'll point out: "Spasms of Light," a collection of haiku, senryu, haibun and tanka, has recently been made available at amazon.com. This is the premier anthology produced by  Wonder Haiku Worlds, and among the "Spasms of Light" contributors... there are many, of whom you will know.  

__The fly-over 11-4-11 @ 1810


cold night
the space stations fly-over
a moments streak

Just an unseen, unheard echo... to Devika's most recent and heartful haibun. _m


white hair
matching this frosty morning
wise footsteps