Here, the goldenrod, is now rich. As I watched these three
horse-carts run the trail that rims a nearby bog, this thought came. A sneeze?



goldenrod
borders this horse-cart trail
the roan snorts

Seasons end like sunsets; the Catbirds have flown. _m


days close
words that cross this silent pond
birds fly south

Soon; this from late last Septober, or perhaps it was Octember_?


yellow leaves
float down this tired river
three ducks

Quick home, to face the potential wind and rain. This, a recent comment I left at TALON; summer swinging at night.


ropes squeek
the swing climbs higher
counting stars

Hello friends... another "quick home."
__With all due respects to haiku masters both ancient and modern, and with a smile, is it plausible that haiku/senryu... are the forerunners of texting? The enticement of the terse?
__This pair, generated by the humming birds as they 'joust,' at their feeders.


joust
at the nectar feeder
pegasus

winged horse
his lance his beak
a rival 

"!BREAKING NEWS!"  
__That, now meaningless TV phrase, I'll use as a metaphor to say: "quickly home!"
__Below, a soft echo to Lorraine's most recent and fine post... as life regains itself. _m


bridges
crossing times rivers
infants

Quickly home.
In an early evening... rain.


days close
catbirds hunt in the briers
rhubarb rain

Our pond... last Saturday night.  


distant train
its whistle in this quiet
our moon floats

Quick home, but because of the heat, back to the pond!
__From time to time, I hang one of my Sunflower seed bird feeders, with a heavy rubber band. It doesn't bother the birds, but that bounce and spin sure bother the "seed stealers."  Has anyone ever seen a dizzy squirrel? No harm done... but comic!

dizzy squirrel
jumps from this spinning feeder
limb miss

__Tomorrow night, back to our pond, See you soon, friends.
Oooo. Which one to choose, which one to choose, which one... ?


bewildered bees
so many tiny blossoms
queen annes lace

 __For "Pete.".
__Kathy and I offer our best wishes to his wife Chris, his daughters Lisa and Erin, and too, to the extended families... as John Denver once sang, "the memories of love will see you through."


they wait
beyond this final door
old friends

__We may refer to them as "Wicked Winds,"  as in winter they drive their iciness  into our marrow; in the heat of the summer we see them as "Benevolent Breezes." How perceptions can change!     _m


swift breeze
across this summer pond
the pin-wheel spins

cool breeze
as birds frolic at their bath
a lost feather

__This is an echo I left at the -Past Tense- link; I've always been amused by the first drops of rain bursting into that dryness of a dirt pathway, each drop each raises a wee puff of dust, and then... a tiny crater remains. Soon its mud!


rain drops
in the pathways dust
craters

Seems to be a lot of fireflies here this summer. 


shooting star
caught in the on-shore wind
a firefly

__Kathy and I have known Michelle since before she was born, now... off to college at the end of summer, and at tomorrow's gathering we'll wish her well! I'll not tell her of this post in her regard... but she will know!     

we knew
before you came
the worth of your collage
now journey off to college life
new worlds           

Our independence.... is within the unity of that need; best wishes to you all, as you sing your anthem of life!    _m


independence
in our strength of unity
this anthem

We like watching the fireworks displays... as seen across our pond.


fireworks
in this night skys sea
anemones

This morning's tour.


shadows wave
along this new days walk
tigerlilys 

A quick visit home.
__Last night night, ten past eight, rain, the hummingbirds were still working the nectar feeders.
__Always a delight and never a surprise, when Kathy often cites a word or phrase... that so fits the scene we are watching. I said, "they need umbrellas," Kathy responded with an intended blank look of comedy on her face, "I think they need..." The last line here, Kathy's invented word.


hummingbirds
still feeding in the rain
hummbrellas

Thanks, LL. Off to our pond again... 'till Sunday night.


blank page
blowing on the wind
someone sees

Equinox. Happy summer, friends!


longest day
these birds sound brighter
pendulums

This morning's six o'clock walk.
__Spurred by a common curiosity, though perhaps for different reasons... I, and a Snapping Turtle... traveled the shoreline. Its head continually bobbing below, then above the 'top-water.'


morning walk
along this ponds quiet shore
a turtles head

Off to your pond again, see you all in a few days.  
Below?  "The Street Cleaners."


cursing
at these passing cars
black crows

At Bill Owen's blog, I left an instant -echo- to his most recent post... cold jello,  in the warm damp summer air? Actually, I liked it... (odd, huh?) so, slightly changed, I brought it here.


jello sweats...
at an open window
rain drops

At the pond, thunder storms during the last three evenings... but the hummingbirds still visited the nectar feeders... in the beginning rains.
__If I used the word -the- (I think) it could point to -all- hummingbirds;  the word -this-  [I rightly (or wrongly) think] refers to... that -one- hummingbird in my sight... the one that spawned my "Scribble" below.   


thunder
of this hummingbirds wings
rain drops

__I'll see you all in a few days.
Now, from sunset to sunrise... this, with our happy wishes, to an expectant friend.


birth
in this egg's crack
sunrise

For the artests; they that capture those remarkable sunsets... by lens or brush.


days close
before it becomes never
a lens paints

__The tornados passed well to the north of us causing, though not to compare with Tupelo, severe damages to Springfield, Worcester, Munson and more towns and cities; sadly, four deaths. Here, near Plymouth, only some very severe thunder storms, and the weather bureau in Taunton recorded along the South Shore, 300 lightning strikes in a mere 15 minutes.
__This time in one's life... just one lightning strike.


tornados
tear away this history
lightning strikes

The only wind to wrinkle this pond's face, the bird's wings.


great blue
across this silent pond
a breeze

Hi folks!  Home from our pond, a quick visit; see you all on Tuesday.


catbirds
talk with the chipmunks
homelands

This wake-up drill... morning coffee!


in the shower
as the suds spool down the drain
smell of kona

During our nights at the pond, Kathy and I become rather primal, and enjoy the simple things of life.


this candle
hides the nights dark
an owl

__At our pond last night, one of the most dense rainfalls we've seen (heard?) in many years, remarkable!


water streams
off this tilted awning
a rope

Change... a key point in time; we can change methods, but we cannot change time.


lilacs
open to this rain
farmer's sow

__I honored her struggle; it was so very important to me, due to a similar situation that occurred in my very immediate family. I tried to think as she might have thought, and thus, this short view was written in 1985, just prior Karen Ann Quinlin's  final breath. Now I repeat it as haibun.


__Fifteen years I've looked out of my window, I, the sentry of mortality... watching and listening, and wondering. Why?
__Reasoning, judgement, and my involuntary breathing all converge in a clutter of echoes that linger in my hollownness. I can't feed the birds that I imagine visit me, or whisk away those flies that offend by leaving their specs on my brow. I can't wipe away my tears, or scratch that ugly itch in the small of my back, or clear my clowded throat. In this stony siege, there is so little that I can, and so much... that I cannot.
__Those looking in, insult me with their thoughts of pity, but I can't argue my displeasure or spit out my words of fury. I try to speak,  but the sound's path is blocked, and the only reward for my struggle are these lonely tears... in the sour corners of each eye.
__Gaping through this glass they watch me wither. These gazers... see me as themselves, and I their proxy, signify their anger as they approach their own Act Three. Locked in their desolation, that inescapable tunnel, they voice my voiceless wrath as they search for their own eternal and infinate survival. Their rage, in facing their own life's truth... peaks, as they watch and realize my bizarre existance. They do not see.

__Looking out, in leaving... I shall remain; I wonder why I see... what they cannot?

in leaving
I shall remain
remembered

Rainy day.

this crack
in the weeping tarmac
dandelion

I borrow this comment that I left at Kristin's Soft Spoken.


from afar
this steeple bell chimes
a birds call

__The fragment, gas prices, simply points back to the true meaning of life... living. Gas prices seem, and are, unimportant.
__Best wishes to the people of our South, and to their speedy recovery from the tornadoes, and these storms' devistation.   _m


winds swirl
lives have flown away
gas prices

Ahh, the birds... wee humor here ? _m


herring gulls
ride the on-shore winds
a duck

__The Easter Egg, I see as a symbol of... birth, life, and rebirth; friends, I trust Easter has presented that happy source of renewal to you all. 
__Here, in this fresh morning, tree buds began to open and the leave's are born.       _m


the birth
in this mornings sun
new leaves

Sometimes,  it seems you should never have tried to find the source of your thoughts.

swim upstream
to find your minds core
rains end

Such a friendly morning's... color!

goldfinches
in the morning sun
forsythia

unlit
this candles cold shadow
a match

__Yesterday our granddaughter Maya, now in her ninth year, secretly left this note for me to find. With pride, I post it for her; her school teacher had explained haiku to her class. The found note:

"Pa-Pa this is for you"

very nice to have
smells like spring time all the time
like a bird singing

__Maya

Gosh, it was just one night!

empty blankets
from dreams of her last touch
I awake

Another old scribble. Not to worry, the bird escapes; smiles, nature at work!

this robin
tugs the caving earth worm
a cat creeps

An old scribble... spring 2006.

greener foothills
as when life was new
the same blue-jays

Baseball... has begun!

bases out
the lines are drawn
popcorn

Some inactivity here, life's unavoidable clutter; sometimes a deeper spoon is needed to stir the stew. With apologies. _m

lost time
a deeper spoon
this stew

The parade.

this river flows
down the tarmac
a pretzel

Day's close.

craving union
the shadows join
rising fog

Departure #7

From my scribble book, _m

Then, and now.

Hours were longer, and in
Wishing for the day,
A child slept through
Bleaker nights,
Awakening to
Bluer skies, where
Birds curled higher
Above greener trees,
Fields were broader,
Hills taller,
Brooks deeper, and
Cleaner winds blew
Through darker forests;
Tomorrows were the
Next steps along
Secret paths that
Led to unknown
Places where
Thickets of fatter
Raspberries waited,
And the
Sun rained down
To pull the earth
Through greening
Stem... into brighter
Flowers.

A child saw these things
Then... and now,
In the sculpture of memory.

A new day.


eyes close
when I awaken
a flower

Kathy, I wish you a very Happy Birthday! Much love, as always, Doug.


birthday
a special day
for me and to my wife
that every day I share with you
a joy

Anybody still use... an old hand-crank pencil sharpener?


my pencil
with its broken lead
lost thought

clover stem
spun between my fingers
hope turns

windmill
this lamp in the dark
snow spins

... we can only offer hope.


earth shakes
life in this rubble
a dove flies

... and I'll add: as the chipmunks, in and out of the darknesses, to gather the day.


this wall
in voids among the stones
poets

Soon, their yearly rite.


headwaters
arise from this thaw
shad spawn

An echo... caused by Andrew's -Past Tense-; one leaf eddies above them all. _m


this wind
stirs my thoughts
a leaf

From last spring's scribble book: of the late March sun, in my shadow a fox's lair... but for the moment.


warmth
seeps into their den
the kits

I... play-jer-ize myself; this a recent comment at K's blog, 'Talon'


a cardinal
taunts this dark-thought crow
brighter perch

__We... had so counted on the old skills and crafts that had built this world, and yet today from so many corners, those arts of providing life... have been re-labeled as lowly functions.
__I ask you my friends to visit -Bicando- that link to the right... and I, back to the sands and the beach... with slight changes.



this sea
we placed in sands
footfalls that traced our path
as tides rose to erase each step
we are

Nebulae.


new winds
from this clouded vapor
words spring

The tides rise, and fall.


hourglass
these sands of time
a beach

President's Day.
__I'll never forget two years ago... my granddaughter asked,"Papa, this is Presents Day, where is mine?" Then, she was 6 years old.

As seen through this morning's light snowfall, 2-21-11:


the changes
I am as I have been
buds redden

Silently, 'moonface' moves to other limbs.


moonrise
it chooses another tree
this voiceless owl

Half sleep.


a muse
collects in rem
that collage awakened
may carry to an empty page
this pen

A 'Twofer': something about the -melt- of time, and the -unseen- speed with which it passes.


as it flys
counts spent snowflake years
a crow

hummingbird
weighs this added tempo
on the wing

Such a photo, 28Jan2011, at Devica's -Abstract Deductions- so real it seems contrived... the dream of artistic photographs.


naked limbs
scratch this cold sky
my mind's leaves

Thanks Lorraine... these few words were pushed out by one of your recent photos.


beyond
these snow hills
more hills

Fog and Flute

Departure #6
__From the summer of 2005, my fictitious legend of a central Connecticut Native clansman.
_m


__Sunset had taken the day's warmth, and cold slid down the mountainside, out and over the pond's water where a fog was born, layering itself low and close, and filling the pond's hollow... resting in this bowl of trees. The song of a flute pierced the fog, and as I gazed across the water toward the music's heart, two fires peered back through the formless haze.
__As sunrise came, I slid my canoe across the pond and cut the water to the pond's far side where we Tunxi knew our spirits gathered. There, I walked this ground of the fog and flute, and I stood at the place of the night fire's dance.
__No traces of fires spent, or gathered wood, nor ashes or sooted rocks... nothing spoke of the fog and flute at this site of the dancing fires. There were only a dog's footprints in the sand among the stones, a pace trail that mapped its night's restless roving... footfalls, claw marks pointing outward into the fog of the night that once was.

morning
seeped into a sleepless dream
this spirit called

__An instant's haze claimed the stony point, and piercing through that moment's vapor came the song of the flute, and the dance of the fires; quickly the music faded to a song of silence.
__Then, there came a black dog, and it sat at my moccasins. He rose to his haunches... and in his eyes shown the dancing fires. His forelegs were thrust outward, and across them lay the flute... his offering to me.
__I grasped the flute; I knew the fires of this dream would join me.
__In one motion I launched my canoe, and rolled to my knees in the canoe's bottom. I pulled the first paddle stroke above the stillness; on the second stroke I looked up... and there the black dog's spirit had joined me. He had become my image. In the trust of my mind's dream, I am the song of the fog and flute, I am in the trance of these dancing fires.

becoming one
the dream and the soul
a paddle stroke

Yup... snowin' again, one must smile!


snowfall
bends the night trees
an icicle

__From my 'scribble book' early last summer, this patch of lady slippers seen at our pond, a catbird was -grocery shopping- among the stems; folks... I wish you summer's warmth!


lady slippers
sway in the sunrise breeze
a catbird

The burrrr of yesterday morning.
__We've all leaned into the wind, those slanting steps toward that driven sleet and snow... discomforting, but we've overcome... as does this gull.


herring gulls
fly this snow filled wind
low tide

I think the new, should never ignor the old; future always begins in the past. This, from one of my scribble books... spring of 2009.


old pathway
closed by the greening trees
I still walk

Snowshoe Hare.


crossings
on these rabbit trails
snowshoes

A comment, grown from Juhani's good post of 1-15-11; link, Tikkis.


the birches
bow to this new snow
a cardinal

I wonder... from whom came the foot prints; the snowman?


fresh fall
this new snowman
foot prints

Burr!


cold seeps
into my sweater
this draft

At shoreside, the fishermen store their lobster pots in a mound. In the snowfall... .


lobster pots
stacked along the pier
mountain snow

__In my scribble book, this was a companion to my post of 1-11-11, and it was posted here in early March of last Spring's-rise; I've logged it again... just to keep the pigeons in a flock.

Quincy Market's, sidewalk performers.


pigeons dance
a violin sings their waltz
smell of rain

Today is: 1-11-11, the numbers game.
__Quincy Market; a vender's squeaky cart wheels, and squawking pigeons. A rare winter sight, this... was in the spring of 2010.


push cart
these pigeons gather
squeaks

For tomorrow.
__To Nora, my understanding friend, I extend my Grand Wishes! Too, to Dianne I offer equally Great Wishes; a very Happy Birthday to you both!
__I raise my glass! _m


three buds
of these different forests
green leaves

I pose a toast to you all... as we pass through the squeaking gates_! ;<)


on icy paths
we close these rusted gates...
tomorrows' call

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