Haiku is the new …

Haiku is a type of short form poetry that originated in Japan. Traditional Japanese haiku consist of three phrases composed of 17 phonetic units (called on in Japanese, which are similar to syllables) in a 5, 7, 5 pattern.*

Might Haiku offer a simpler, more fun way to express the thoughts and feelings that flow through a poet’s veins? Perhaps. This kind of writing-as-game offers one the opportunity to enjoy the craft of writing in a new and fun way. Can I make the 5-7-5 pattern into something interesting, meaningful, funny, poignant, and if so, why not try? Wendy has given it a go, and we think you might enjoy journeying though a few months in the life of a practiced poet who decided to try something new. If you feel moved to join in, leave your Haiku in the comments below.


In January

Sky remains lighter later

As day is ending

 

Scarlet azaleas

I see them from my window

Winter’s gift to me

 

No sun this morning

Yonder hill is obscured

Is it mist or fog?

 

I would have a gown

Color of the azaleas

Deep scarlet are they

 

Heavy rain pours down

Pounds against my windowpane

Kettle drums drumming

 

We will not complain

The azaleas are blooming

The full moon rises

 

Daylight savings time

Weird     heard the cows are to blame

No     blame the chickens

 

Our children are grown

Memories of their childhood

Forever in my heart

 

Don’t mind being alone

Because I know you’ll be home

All year Thanksgiving

 

Help     loud music plays

Please CVS Pharmacy

Answer     save my ears

 

Blue sky vanishes

Clouds you are beautiful

But please go away

 

Morocco Michael?

With your sketchbook in cafes?

You never came home

 

Night owl from day one

Janitor hears her howling

“Wendy, go to sleep!”

 

Mama wears fox tails

Head too     ugh ugh horrible

Her high fashion stole

 

The sound of his voice

Gives me the heebee-jeebies

Gift him to Putin

 

Mourning Dove calls calls

Keeps calling     no one answers

I would if I could

Of a Sudden

As we stood looking through

The glass

Of the sliding patio

Door

Into the night

Sky

There she was

A perfect roundness

Of white light

The Moon

Risen above the distant

Hill

And it seemed

She lay resting from her

Ascent

Against a smooth blanket

Of blackness

And as we stood

Gazing

Into her full-faced

Light

Of a sudden

Out of her stillness

We heard the hoot

A soft mournful

Hoot

From an owl

It had to have

Been

An owl

On a high branch

Of a Sycamore tree

An owl

How can this be

There are no owls

Here

And yet a

Hoot

Only an owl would

Deliver

 

It excited us

Delighted us

And although we looked

Up

Into the darkened

Sycamore

We could not find

The owl

Although again the

Hoot

Again     again

Then      silence

 

For the next two nights

Moon retained her

Fulness

For the next two nights

Owl hooted softly

From the Sycamore

Tree

 

On the third night

Moon had begun her

Waning

On the third night

No hoot from the

Owl

On a high branch

Of the Sycamore

Tree

It was gone

Flown away

Only a silent night

Remained

Image Credit

War

I will not mention names

What good would that do

Anyway

What is done     is done

Children

So many

If I could write down

Their names

In memoriam

Their names would fill

The pages

Of a giant encyclopedia

The one country so brutally

Attacked

Has the right to defend

Itself

Yet

When does defense become

Attack

Desist     desist

Allow those who are

Left

On either side

Live in peace

Yes     yes

Let those left

Live in peace

Where for Art Thou Mourning Dove


The call of the Mourning Dove
Comes
Three times Three times Three times
Then is silent
I listen for its calling to begin
Again
As it does time after time
But now Silence
Just far off rumbling
Of traffic
On El Camino Real

In my craving
To know all of everything
The thoughts and feelings
Even patterns of behavior
Of people I know
I love
Do not know
Only read about
In blurbs of news
From my iPad
And so I do not find it
Odd
That in the natural order
Of things
I want to know
Why
The Mourning Dove calls
Three times Three times Three times
Is silent
Then either calls again again again
Or I would guess
Flies away

Halfway to May

It is the middle of April
Michael
Nearing the month of
May
The memory I hold
Has us on the beach
Sand under our bare
Feet
Watching the sun descend
Behind the Santa Monica
Mountains
Clothing all we see
In the glory of
Sundown

Now
Is the middle of April
Again
Fifty some years have
Passed
Michael is gone
My children    themselves
Are grandparents
My Beloved and I
In a place
Michael never visited
Never had been

Yet
When April is halfway to
May
Michael     my childhood
Friend      returns
With sand under our
Bare feet
As we stand watching the sun
Descend
Behind the Santa Monica
Mountains
Clothing all we see
In the glorious colors of
Sundown

Is There a Poem?

Is there a poem

Hiding in one of my
Books
Or
Is this a memory
Of hearing
In the distance
Sounds
The Wild Geese
Create     migrating
To their winter
Home

I Love them

Waited
Every fall
To see them
Waited
To hear their
Voices
Waited
On the wooden
Deck
Outside my bedroom
For them to arrive
With their familiar
Honking
As I stood
Gazing
My head raised to the
Sky
My eyes following them
As they flew
One by one
In a straight line
Over the Eucalyptus
The Mountain Ash
Away   away
From my sight

I would call to
Them
Bless you     Bless you
Be safe on your
Way
Wild Geese
Safe on your
Way
While their honking
Voices
Grew fainter    fainter
Until the silence of the
Day
Wrapped around me
Again

 

The Day King Died

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is 7:30 in the evening      a Wednesday

And the children have finished their supper     yes

It is April 4, 1968

The television makes a noise from the den

Behind the laundry room

He and I sit alone at the table

Bones from lamb chops

Splay over the plates

Empty milk-lined glasses

Stand on the landscape of the oilcloth

Like tree stumps in a meadow

 

I get up from the table finally

I want to wash the dishes

Put the kids to bed

He sits on at the table

Weary from riding to Chicago

On the 6:19

And out to Waukegan again

On the 4:39

And all the things that happened

In between

 

I carry dirty dishes

Over to the sink

And look out the kitchen window

My neighbor whose name

I can never remember

Stands above his galvanized tin garbage can

Holds a bag of garbage in his arms

Like a baby wrapped in a receiving blanket

And I let the water run

And stare at my neighbor

As tears roll down his face

I am shaking now

And lean on the white porcelain rim

Of the kitchen sink

Because a man whose name I can’t remember

Weeps

 

Then my eldest son starts to yell

Words at first I don’t understand

Until a name becomes clear

Martin Luther King Jr.

As he runs back into the kitchen

 

My knuckles are white

From my grip on the white porcelain rim

Of the kitchen sink

While in my head I hear

A dream explode

 

Written in 1983, inspired by a Frank O'Hara poem, "The Day Lady Died"

“Feed my Lambs” -JC

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My day is almost over

Light lingers on far off

Hills

But cannot hold the sun

That moves below the sea’s

Horizon

Leaves a clue of its descent

In a small pink cloud

 

Supper comes

When day is closing

Thoughts of those

Who won’t have this

Meal

Rise inside my mind

Fill my heart with a living

Sadness

 

“Gather ye the harvest”

Of wasted food

Do not throw away

What does not sell

What isn’t ordered

Off a menu

Sold by dates

Not long past

Give to the homeless

To shelters

Where the unwanted

Live

Wasted food     so much

Waste

Enough to feed the hungry

World

-2015

Image credit

Miss Mouse

 

 

 

 

 

 

An aura of judgment

Surrounds me

Invades my growing years

Settles into my consciousness

I take it as truth

It is who I become

Hesitant     shy

Afraid to take chances

Holds back     holds back

Cringing at judgmental words

Spoken around family dinner

Tables

Between Father and Mother

Words critical of other people

Known     unknown     of me

I live my nickname

Miss Mouse

Hear a voice

Inside myself

Tells me over

Over     over

Don’t try     don’t try

What if you fail

What if you fail

 

I listen to the voice

Play life safe

Unadventuresome     fearful

Of everything

 

I blame no one

There is no one to blame

Save my own self

 

Now

Only remnants of the aura

Remain in my consciousness

Like wisps left from a morning

Fog

They pass through my awareness

Are gone

 

Aura—“a distinctive atmosphere surrounding a given source” –New Merriam-Webster Dictionary

—June 2015

 

Sister Moon

 

Tonight a crescent moon

Thin like a strand of silver

Thread

Wisps of cloud move around

Her gentle shape

That disappears as a marine

Layer

 

 

Comes to command the night

Sky

 

Waking in early hours

After midnight

I look for the moon

Look for Orion

Out the bedroom window

Earth’s rotation

Brings them to me

Different hours

Different nights

Orion with reddish mars

Above

Sirius below

Her brilliance shimmering

In the dark

 

Many times

The moon is come

Is gone

Before I wake

But many times

Its light falls on me

Through the window

Many times

I see the moon

Go down

Behind myaporum

Its face fractured

Like broken glass

By the branches

Made whole again

When it rises

Tomorrow

 

There is an energy

That connects me

To all of them

My spirit sings

In the night

Claims the moon

As sister

-2011