Wind at the windows.

panes rattle
above this night's wind
the tea kettle

__One very still night, a week or so past, I stood and watched the silent pond, the night sky reflected upward and not the slightest breeze scurried the surface.
__I wondered about the campfire light, streaking the pond from the far side... and the campers that were tending their fire. Then came my crudity, and the comment... returned:

i belched...
from across the pond
a dog's bark

No... not my last brick, but now... a nail. (punctuation?)

a rusty nail
there hang the old blue-jeans
this barn

__I have, these many years, thought of words, as bricks. The structures built... can have weakness and strength, simplicity and complexity, ugliness, beauty, thought and imagination, and the wonder of these structures depends on the artful pattern in which the bricks had been lain.
__Today, at Bill Owen's blog, I left this response to his single line haiku, of September 14th., the link... WF Owen, below.


the last brick... I close the book

This, from last fall.

goldenrod
on anise scented breeze
changes flag

Tele a to; and for your visits, I sincerly thank you all. _m

older...
we can laugh without
red tape

morning
a fog curls
this night's lingered trinket
where turns of change to new day's sun
holds secrets

__The hucksters have moved on from the 'back to school' supplies and clothing to the next 'seasonal mark,' All Hallow's Eve. The retail shelves are (too early) full of costumes, plastic pumpkins, scarry trinkets, candy... and masks. Remember when some of the fun of IT... was the -making- of the costumes and masks, and fashioning your own pumpkin?
__This scribbled note from mid-summer... then, there was never the thought of Halloween. _m

grand daugter
smiles through her blackberry pie
masquerade

The Canada geese; this, first seen at Tinywords, 9-6-07.

moonrise...
geese argue
with their shadows

Hello friends; this one from a few years back, a daily visit with his lost master/friend.

sad dog
visits each day
this headstone

Back to the pond; I thank you all for your visits, and I wish you all a grand weekend! _m
-It wont be long now, this change. -


lower sun
as finches loose their color
this maple tree

The next wildflower.

a broach
jems this Queen Anne's Lace
ladybug

Home from the pond; this afternoon's walk around the cranberry bog. (A bee with an alergy?)

goldenrod
along this dusty road
a bee's sneeze

_During each of these summer weeks, Kathy and I spend 4 or 5 days at our pond, and there the wireless links are weak and momentary, at best... but I try.
_From Emma's blog, the word -midden- reminded me of a scribbling of mine from a few years back.

flowers
rise from this midden
soft rain

Off... to the pond, 'tele a to.'

silent
the heron walks
and wades along this shore
a sense on sense survival search
alone

A Student says, I have much to learn;
a Master says, I have learned... how little I know.

today
I search the earth and clouds
yesterday

Remember when the jelly jars were saved... expendables, for sipping milk and juice, and perhaps some "Moxie" ?

this sip
wine's call to childhood
a jelly jar

Nervously nocturnal, their eyes glow in the least light.


flying squirrel
in these darkened leaves
two moons

Nora... urged I post this, this private note to her, and the connective haiku comment I left at her blog, and that I conjoin them... as haibun. This, a recollection, then, of times passed, and I thank you, my young friend!

_We visited my father's grave as often as we could, he in North Western Connecticut, and we here. During those nine years I noticed no changes in that unpretentious country graveyard, or as some would call it, unkempt.
_Then my mother joined him; the day after her funeral, and only then, I noticed her freshly cut name and date... in the moss and ivy, and mold of their darkened cairn. Odd, how things can grow and change and be so unseen until that one instant of reality.

ivy and moss
on this old stone
a new name

_To my niece, Maureen, her husband Jason, and our Grandnephew "Jake" we offer our deepest congratulations; soon a new Son and Brother, and for K and I, a new Grandnephew!
_Too, we extend our good wishes to the waiting Great Grandmother, Grandmother, and Aunt! (My post of July 16th was -not- a premonition, but yet... this is a sequel.)

life begun
grows in his time before time
this son

Both needed.

sun...
lures this new flower
the rain

Back to the pond... and the mosquitoes.

lamplight
mosquitoes play chess...
we castle

Kathy, just... didnt see me.

I wave to you
across this empty common
a pigeon replies

I'd written a much longer story to this, too long to post.

_Years back, I saw a pastel painting on a silk scroll... a flying bird, and clasped in its claws and beak, were twigs and grasses... the things of a nest. Along side the painting were Japanese characters that, of course, I could not decipher. Now I can only speculate.

time
begins in every birth
the nest

Team work.

a hummingbird
hovers with the bee
one blossom

...and the rain persists


my schooner
sails an empty wind
the reef

Sounds of the pond, in the night's stillness.

night pond
crickets... frogs and rain
a distant highway

An "E" link, I thank you all. _m

anemones
bursting in this night's sky
fireworks

Something different.
_Sunday's comment at Words Flow, and when I read Lorraine's words I instantly and easily scribbled this echo; Lorraine suggested I post that verse here, and I Thank you, Lorraine.

_My wife Kathy, she and I, are off to the pond 'till Sunday, coming... hope to find an -E-link.

The nights
Changed to dream,
The moment she became
All my days.

I look for those things of time, the flowers of now... from then, and the remnants of that that was.

tiger lilies
reunion of timeless friends
stonewall

Another instant home; Scusset... a breakwater in Plymouth.

clam shells
rattle in the surf
footprints

Here, it seems it has been raining_ forever.

nectar feeder...
its plastic flowers
drip of rain

Home for an instant: Through the summer, holly leaves turn yellow then fall away... quickly replaced by new green.

yellow leaves
this holly changes clothes
a finch

Balance

I'm off on a tangent today. I was fifteen when this was written... then, I had aspirations of becoming a bard when I grew up; fifty one years later, nothing has changed. ;-)

The world is in my hands,
Mine are scared and stained
By the blood and gashes
Of past mistakes.
But
The future will cleanse and cure them
To preserve the evil that lies within,
For without evil there can be no good,
And good is the paradigm I seek.

_At Past Tense, Andrew's most recent good posting has brought to my memory this... scribbled in my notes a few years back; one word, I trust, will be offensive to no one.

far lightning
above the soft thunder
my dog farts

An instant home from the pond. Every year at this time, I search for these wild flowers.

silence
walks among these trees
ladyslippers

Sunrise.

morning mist
jems the spiders art
a moth

A new day begins.

bird talk
this five o'clock
alarm

This silliness of rain drops putting out the 'fires.' Oh, not to worry... they all 're-lit!' This, a second posting.

fire flies
in this night's soft rain
pfsst pfsst pfsst

night train
the distant wheels rhythm
rising fog

Home from the pond. A photograph by Edward S. Curtis, circa 1905, drove this thought.

warm pool
in this spring stream rage
dream's maid

Wedensday night, a useable E-link at our pond... and the tree frogs.

moonlight
after this late day's rain
tree songs

Breezy night, moon's shadow... projected.


leafed limb
a night shadow's broom whisks
the cottage side

Home from the pond this AM. There, there are -weak- wireless linkages.

at the door
eight abandoned shoes
steeplechase

Shouting chapmen... most pigeons scatter.

street sellers
tout their worldly wears
pigeons

This... first seen at wonderhaikuworlds.

_I took a step, then a second and a third... thus began my trek along this beach of writers. I glance back and see my footmarks fade and flatten under these waves of words. A sand castle tumbles.
each grain
is this sandcastle
the tide rises

_In a faded moment, I liken myself to a mere grain of sand along this shore of poets; a grain of sand that can never write, but can only witness. I am the simple scribe of what I see and hear, touch and taste, and smell. I dream.
sunset
this salty surf throbs
a song of roses

Cold slides down the hills... not exactly warm here today!

cold spills
across this warmed pond
new fog

The rainy sunset's ember, a promise of tomorrow.

day's ember
a promise in the rain
doves coo

John McDonald translated this into Scotts, on 9/16/2007, at WHW.

day's aizle
a hecht i the weet
doos croodle

I thank you again, John!
_m

When one sees or imagines a scene such as this, does an old, forgotten homestead come to mind?

dirt road
where the brook crosses...
lilacs

The... nature of "life."

inch worm
measures this briered vine
catbird

Irony at the Grange... from a few Septembers ago. _m

grange supper
vegetables in the stew
from a can

bog breeze
a great blue heron
poses

a bee
finds the sweet...
a jelly jar

Watching, is trouble free.

night breeze
with her kittens in a row
the skunk

Water Face

_I scribbled a short story years ago: At the native clan's summer camp, a Mahican child saw his reflection in the river's pool; through accumulated summers, the river's pool never changed... but his face never stopped... . This sedoka, (some may not call it that,) as a condensation of that story, was posted on 11/11/07 at http://www.wonderhaikuworlds.com/ .
_Janice's most recent post "reflected" this memory... though now, it has become somewhat "edited."

of this river pool
a mahican sees his face
in its roaming course

of that water face
this child of spirits reasons
he may never know

Good afternoon!

new dance
with every raindrop...
the fern

We are away for a few days, and the wireless link there can be a matter of chance.
This, for my Grandaughter.

eyes open
her rag doll tries to sleep
counting stitches

As inspired by Nora's haiku of yesterday; one wonders... who planted this tree, and who that bird might be.

this pear tree
in blossoms of memory
a bird tends

sunset
the wine of closing days
a last sip

_To the lighter side. Three Octobers ago, my wife and I passed this gate sign in the New England state of New Hampshire; I scribbled this. Perhaps they'll be -open- soon?

gate sign
this road to a nudist camp...
-clothed- for the season

bird songs...
in my day's purse
their coins

willow shadow
and in this tangled hair
a duck combs

From this point, in the tag line, -n- refers to newly written.

in her wake
again he follows...
the swan

A sallow, subliminal attempt at some humor... from the old nursery rhyme, "and the cow jumped over the moon."

a fish jump
breaks the night's quiet
over the moon

Sipping tea or port, friends passing words around and across the evening's campfire.

campfire
its sweet woodsmoke rises
through the words

my fingers recite
this therapy of the keys
pianissimo
as my tired mind wanders
to yesterday's duet

Thunder?

warm rain
cymbals through the trees
this drum

I've scribbled but one haiku with the word, "butterfly," and since I've opted to use each fly's call name. The top is that one, and the lower was written just moments ago... imagination.

listen...
among the silent flowers
a butterfly

dandelions
float on a new wind
this monarch

last night's heavy rain.

rainy night
old men boast of deeds
never done

A visit home, in the reflection of memory.

greening foothills
as when life was new...
the same bluejays

Yesterday, I found the first Rod McKuen book I purchased in 1969 (or thereabout,) "Listen to the Warm," I always liked those words and today, of them, I scribbled this (sort of) Cinq.


listen
to the warm breeze
seeping through the lilacs
into every awakened sense
new dawn

Thank you, Polona, your most recent haiga brought this to mind. It was first seen at the adventerous site, wonderhaikuworlds, on 4/29/07. I'm never content with that which I write, so this has been altered some.

gray dawn
the only sunrise...
a forsythia

Looking for the warmth, I remember this one from a few summers ago. More rain.

fireflies
in this night's soft rain...
pfsst pfsst pfsst

From old trinkets, to an old friend.

warm rain
we listen to your song
old friend

A personal thought, without a season.

antique shop...
in the porridge of my mind
old trinkets

candle flame
this moth follows its call
a kind wind

pond rain...
drops fall into themselves
again

The onset was Friday the 13th, again it is Friday the 13th... . I thank you all, for my acceptance here!_m

a crack echoes
through this soundless forest
dim smell of pine

The moon is unseen, but the hound knows its there.

clouded night...
a far hound explains
the full moon

-Survival-

Two springs have passed since this was scribbled.

robins tug
the caving earth worms
a cat creeps

6:00 am. Geese, too many to count.

pond sounds
these Canadas commune...
ice-out

subway station
the newsstand keeper peeks
at centerfolds

Contraries

Compare the "contraries." The icicle the candle, the drop, the flame... "contraries," and each, the beginning of contrary results.

one drop lingers
at winter's last icicle
a candle flame

Sundial

Native American clans used their 'telling stones.' The closer that the sunrise beams came to that stone, the nearer spring was and the time to plant crops.

each morning
closer to this telling stone...
the sunrise

As generated by Jens' posted poem, 3/1/9

yarns of memory
weave through these snowy streets
a new cloth

power failure
in this night's act three...
northern lights

moon questions
quiver across this pond's ice
an owl answers

No more pitch fork?

time advanced
the American Gothic...
a cell phone

snowman...
beside the road leading south
a hitch-hiker

As seen in AMBROSIA, Winter 2009, issue 2... my real name.

blue jays clamor...
in this noonday sun
a brook's echo

a stray cat
plays with this forgotten ball
over par

morning dancer
through this brier's leafless limbs
sun shadows

mountain laurel...
of these sham blossoms
the night's snow

My initial post... was first seen at the good site, WonderHaiku Worlds.

snow fills
this cabins shattered bones
a broken tea cup