lost track
of the last time
I changed my mind…
Posted by Tom Clausen | Filed under poems and photos
summertime
23 Monday Dec 2013
Monthly Archives: December 2013
Homework- poems of a young family- parenting moments
22 Sunday Dec 2013
Posted in Chapbooks
Homework by Tom Clausen
Snapshot Press (2000) Liverpool, UK
this quiet morning
even the bar of soap
falls apart
constantly dust and
peeling paint and
molds and cracks-
this house we call home
holding us
cleaning the poop out
his little Superman
underpants
how long he cries
for the little shell lost
on the way home
stumbling
with her proud little bean plant
the break in her face
as she sees me
looking
home from work…
the little one brings me
an empty wine bottle
after speaking importantly
she quickly resumes
sucking her thumb
playing a child’s game
I learn all
his rules
losing control of my son
– and myself
all through
his temper tantrum
her calm
as I sit in thought
she moves briskly
about the room,
stirring the chill
in the air
to the cat:
“that is complete and
utter nonsense”
without consent
my old sneakers
in the trash
we bicker
all through the house
… cleaning
my wife admits
she is not perfect,
but is glad I am
now that I’m over
my bad mood,
she’s in one
to the goldfish
she speaks
more softly
revealed so long
this grain of wood
on our floor-
the distance yet
we have to go
just home from work
back to back
phone solicitations
after her letter
no heart to open
a bill
our son spills his milk,
not an iota
of reaction from him
using her potty
as a step stool
she poops
telling her it’s time
for a diaper change:
“ I did not”
how could I have known
our children, precious
as they are,
would drive us
to such brinks?
in the next room
our children peacefully asleep
– we do nothing
that point
in the evening
where both cats are in place
quietly licking themselves
while I read
she’s waited up…
to have some last words
with me
while brushing my teeth
she tells me again:
“let’s move”
it’s not for any
simple reason
I’ve fallen out
of love
with my life
up in the dark
the toilet
overflows
the plumber
kneeling in our tub
– talking to himself
done-
the repairman tells me
any fool can do it
each day being human
brings its choices, chores
and emotions-
hands in the sink water and
the children calling out for more
ten years now
her non-stacking
dessert dishes
I watch the tv
movie love scene my wife
already in bed
the snow
moves me
window to window
in the empty room
I look around to remember why
I’m here
before sleep
laughing to myself
at myself
New Year’s Eve-
the lentil soup
again
in the middle
of my life
an ulcer
New Year’s …
recycling last year’s
resolutions
second day
of the New Year:
taxes arrive
quite by surprise
my daughter asks me
if I’d like to be a woman
the gravity in the moment
I took to answer
sick in bed-
my son pelts the window
with snowballs
in the shower
an economy-size bar of soap
lands on my toe
at the mailbox
the emptiness
of another day
it occurs to me
to retreat
from this world-
as if another world
might exist
no longer me
it proves a mystery who it is
I’ve become
walking around this house
with my family there inside
the confines
of my basement study
call me
as if my life were there
to be resolved
evening star…
she sleeps with the lion’s tail
in her little hand
I sort of knew
my coffee cup
was empty-
so much I look in it
just to see
outside the glass door
our old cat has forgotten
it wanted ‘in’
yard work:
some of the old tire water
on my shoes
the butterfly’s path…
my son swings again
and misses
the children run
so carelessly through
the garden-
my dismay
tempered with memory
in the midst
of the children’s raucous play
I notice my son a moment
staring as if aware
of something fleeting past
I watch my children
joyfully little and innocent
of everything ahead-
too much I know
too much to tell
bowed to the ground
the goldenrods
too tall of themselves-
I couldn’t tell her why
the sky is blue
summer dusk-
the neighbors vacuum
the silence
in another season
17 Tuesday Dec 2013
a selection of little poems by tom clausen featured at antantantant from 9-30-2011
17 Tuesday Dec 2013
Posted in Tom poems at other sites
TOM CLAUSEN ant ant ant ant ant seven
September 30, 2011 § Leave a Comment
After The Pleasant Part
:
:
from the soil
in the shovel
a beetle crawls
:
low cloud cover
early in the morning
her tight dress
:
in the tall stand
of evergreens
my cookie crumbs
:
reflections
under the bridge
a man fishes
:
without her friend
on the bus
her face
:
no one home
on the hard ground
a light snow
:
carried on
the flooded river
a beach ball
:
spring
removing the neighbors
from view
:
while they investigate
the accident outside
I order pizza
:
wild cherries in blossom
their land rough
with junk
:
all I know
she has a blue star
on her left breast
:
gray daybreak
her “to do” list
from yesterday
:
at 70mph
what I saw
wild turkeys
:
keeping quiet
last of the day’s light
on new grass
:
asleep
in the fallen scarecrow’s lap
a cat
:
the War
a woodchuck nibbles
beside the freeway
:
at the next urinal
he studies a tile
higher up
:
garden walk
she checks herself
in the pond
:
the crow
in me
gets a response
:
dentist chair
the sun comes and goes
from the window
:
cemetery
tracks in the snow
lead out to the road
:
the habit of looking
where it used to be
the mirror
:
on her cell phone
going into the building
“I love you too”
:
on time
the daily truck load
of pigs
:
after the pleasant part
of our walk
we hurry
:
warm spring day
a bra
in the bushes
:
the chain link fence
runs into
high water
:
writing him
the second letter
without complaints
:
dinner over
he addresses
some crumbs
:
heavy overcast
between bench slats
a sprout
:
one leaf by tom clausen
15 Sunday Dec 2013
Tags
art, details, dreams, found, found art, haiku, Ithaca, leaves, lost, nature, New York, oak, oaks, photography, poetry, snow, tanka, time, winter, witness, writing, zen
new snow
on old
and a leaf ,
a blue hue
to the day
that feeling everywhere I go… a bit lost, a bit found…
Posted by Tom Clausen | Filed under close up details, nature, poems and photos, winter
snowy night waiting for a friend
15 Sunday Dec 2013
Favorite Tanka selected by Tom Clausen
15 Sunday Dec 2013
Posted in Tom selected favorites
son of mine
what’s done is done…
seed by seed, I’d breathe
back the dandelion clock,
place its stem in your hand
what’s done is done…
seed by seed, I’d breathe
back the dandelion clock,
place its stem in your hand
– Claire Everett
*
*
*
*
thirty years
on the job
I’ve become
something of an expert
on what’s unimportant
– John Stevenson
*
*
*
*
all I found
when I Googled my father
was his obituary
a small wind releases
the song of the wind chime
– Margaret Chula
*
*
*
*
inscribed,
with enduring love
my darling,
the book he found
at a rummage sale
– John Martell
*
*
*
*
the unknown man
who stared down the tanks-
we love him
and also the one
who pulled him aside
– John Stevenson
*
*
*
*
Bee’s, butterflies, birds
swaying meadow flowers
and something more…
just beyond
comprehension
– George Swede
*
*
*
*
how you say
everything
I wanted to hear
now that it’s
too late
– Rose Hunter
*
*
*
*
so many years ago
the night she left me,
and still it lingers:
on the car radio a song
just right for my blues
– Sanford Goldstein
*
*
*
*
Noticed
right away among
the smooth pebbles
of the Zen garden
a small, jagged stone
– George Swede
*
*
*
*
no matter
if I never take
another lover-
I have your imprint
our children and the sea
– Amelia Fielden
*
*
*
*
after I am gone
break my plate
bury my pen
plant flowers
in my cup
– Michael Ketchek
*
*
*
*
Thunder at dawn
shakes me out of a dream
I didn’t want to leave
that green space in the woods
where wildflowers hide
– Carol Purington
*
*
*
*
in this season
of falling leaves
how easy
to watch dreams vanish
in wisps of autumn smoke
– Angela Leuck
*
*
*
*
one’s life
can no more be entrusted
to another
than can the timing
of a perfect soft-boiled egg
– Mariko Kitakubo
*
*
*
*
my parents and in-laws
moving toward senility
suddenly
there’s no one
I need to impress
– Margaret Chula
*
*
*
*
wanting to stay,
I could not,
and leaving,
I wanted
to write ten thousand poems
– Sanford Goldstein
*
*
*
*
we drive in silence
and even though I offer
occasional smiles
you know you’ll never reach where
it is that my thoughts wander
– Jean Jorgensen
*
*
*
*
Seeing a layer
of dust on the surface
of my bathroom mirror,
I traced a finger through it
to make a Happy face
– Karma Tenzing Wangchuk
*
*
*
*
she says she
owns two very fine cats,
though probably
unaware that cats do not
have owners, only staff
– Art Stein
*
*
*
*
as if she feels
how much I am missing you
already
a girl near me on the plane
begins to weep
– Laura Maffei
*
*
*
*
Gone all morning
I come home for lunch
and scratch his ears
– my little dog
so happy with so little
– Pat Shelley
*
*
*
*
November chill-
tangles of silver caught
in my brush.
Tell me
I’m still yours
– Pamela Miller Ness
*
*
*
*
wakeful
in early darkness
I plan
how to fit twenty things
into a ten thing day
– Kirsty Karkow
*
*
*
*
maybe we’ll meet again
in the fullness of tomorrow’s moon
alone in my room
I notice how smoothly my jeans
slide off my hips
– Thelma Mariano
*
*
*
*
if it’s not the headlines
it’s a dead deer by the roadside
or something else
I just keep tripping over
the first noble truth
– Michael Ketchek
*
*
*
*
I, who
have almost nothing,
want little
beyond freedom from this
freedom from that
– Karma Tenzing Wangchuk
*
*
*
*
The huge reservoir
beyond the dam
thinking of my wife
I realize the great value
of holding back my words
– Michael Ketchek
*
*
*
*
semester’s last class
and his twenty-two students
end their stiff questions-
the moment comes like a winged bird
like a Prometheus unbound
– Sanford Goldstein
*
*
*
*
barefoot
on warm sand
my toes
inches from the whole
Atlantic Ocean
– Art Stein
*
*
*
*
wondering for years
what would be
my life’s defining moment
an egret staring at me
me staring back
– Jeanne Emerich
*
*
*
*
brick factory building
abandoned twenty year-
the small town boys
still haven’t broken
every window
– Michael Ketchek
*
*
*
*
Clouds gather
and part, gather and part.
So will we.
Even now, it seems,
we’re gathering, parting
– Karma Tenzing Wangchuk
*
*
*
*
dry seeds scatter
from my hand into the wind-
one clings
as if to say there is in me
something yet to be
– Jeanne Emerich
*
*
*
*
I walk fast
as if far is not
far enough
as if these loved fields
were not gift enough
– Caroline Gourlay
*
*
*
*
Come quickly- as soon as
these blossoms open
they fall
this world exists
as a sheen of dew on flowers
– Lady Izumi Shikibu
*
*
*
*
She waits
in purple- lidded privacy
ignoring the tea
with a sweep of one hand
sends the waitress away
– Patricia Prime
*
*
*
*
they say the moon
little by little each day
moves away
I confess to no one
what strangers we have become
– Marjorie Buettner
*
*
*
*
How afraid
so many of us are of life-
not wanting
to leave behind the known
not knowing whats ahead
– Karma Tenzing Wangchuk
*
*
*
*
an old photograph
of my parents
young and happy,
of all the things I own
that is the saddest
– Michael McClintock
*
*
*
*
how will I know you
on the Internet-
in Cyberspace-
without the warmth of your voice
the touch of your hand
– Pat Shelley
*
*
*
*
Here in the desert,
spring is over just like that,
Our lives, too, are short.
Who knows whether you and I
will meet in the next world?
– Karma Tenzing Wangchuk
*
*
*
*
writing
on the back of the letter
she wrote to me
a poem about windows
and distance
– Leatrice Lifshitz
*
*
*
*
Thinking about it,
what else is there but this—
birth, death,
and something in between
of uncertain duration?
– Karma Tenzing Wangchuk
*
*
*
*
walking
the railroad tracks
alone-
more and more we live
our parallel lives
– Larry Kimmel
*
*
*
*
parting with
my telescope
and with it
a certain way
of seeing myself
– John Stevenson
*
*
*
*
Department meeting:
while the mouths utter business
the eyes ripple with
someone sailing, someone fishing
someone drowning
– George Swede
*
*
*
*
long after she’s left
the garden she tended
weeds reclaim the flowerbeds
my heart too
has grown wild
– Brian Tasker
*
*
*
*
invited at last
to meet his parents
i find myself
wondering which me
i should wear
– Doris Kasson
*
*
*
*
you climb
a speck on the rockface
of the mountain-
waiting here below it is
I who am exposed
– Caroline Gourlay
*
*
*
*
vacation’s end
the highway still unraveling
when I close my eyes
how many parts of myself
have I left homeless behind
– Marjorie Buettner
*
*
*
*
he’s traveled
these highways most of his life
yet today
somewhere between anger and tears
old man admits he is lost
– Jean Jorgensen
*
*
*
*
I tell my guardian angel
I’ll happily die
in April
alas, each April comes
and I tell her I’m not ready
– Pat Shelley
*
*
*
*
I had read
your love poems
and now,
having met you,
read them again
– John Stevenson
*
*
*
*
far down the valley
she waves and calls to me
I love her more
in the time it takes
her voice to arrive
– John Sheirer
*
*
*
*
sleeping
on my lap
the cat
becomes a book-rest
for my other world
– Carolyn Thomas
*
*
*
*
her plane disappears
into starlight…
and somewhere
in her luggage
my love poem
– Michael Dylan Welch
*
*
*
*
watching
the storm tossed trees
through glass
afraid to let myself go
where the wind would take me
– Alison Williams
*
*
*
*
in the curve of light
the crash and spray
of the full-moon tide;
for a moment with arms crossed
the power of my youth
– Jeff Witkin
*
*
*
*
the wind-blown clouds
lighten and darken
lighten and darken
the room
in which we argue
– Brian Tasker
*
*
*
*
A subway train,
traveling beside ours,
veers up and away.
My feelings for you
go where they go
– John Stevenson
*
*
*
*
hair clean and long
sun-dried in the wind
my face
searches the blue sky
for its final destination
– Jane Reichhold
*
*
*
*
this road
connecting to another
that to another
until reaching the spot
where i will turn cold
– William Ramsey
*
*
*
*
Not to disturb
the spider in her web
between two trees
I take
the other path
– Pat Shelley
*
*
*
*
Writing a poem
of longing for her
I’m irritated
by the interruption
of her phone call
– George Swede
*
*
*
*
dawn
and you open
your deep-green eyes-
blackbirds stir
somewhere in the conifers
– John Barlow
*
*
*
*
with a man
who was once
the center of my universe
I discuss
interest rates
– Fay Aoyagi
*
*
*
*
not a single star
out of place in the
milky way-
the garden gate
left ajar all night
– Pamela Babusci
*
*
*
*
just five minutes
pressed against a stranger
on a crowded train
so why do I spend my day
dreaming of a life with her?
– John Barlow
*
*
*
*
on the night train
through that foreign land
I waver once
glimpsing
a lit farm kitchen
– Marianne Bluger
*
*
*
*
Ice in the corners
of my bedroom window
reminds me
how long it’s been
since I saw her last.
– Karma Tenzing Wangchuk
*
*
*
*
Almost invisible
the zero
I traced
only last week
in the mantle dust…
– Marianne Bluger
*
*
*
*
in the dark
a tawny owl calls
unanswered
I pour out my last drop
of whiskey
– John Barlow
*
*
*
*
late spring hike
the trail still full of snow
on the north slope
we take turns walking
in each other’s footsteps
– David Rice
*
*
*
*
weeding in the garden
humming to myself
suddenly a mourning dove
calls from me some sadness
I can’t quite name
– Mary Lou Bittle-DeLapa
*
*
*
*
*
Several languages
and a thousand theorems
safe in his cranium
how serene my father
looks in death
– Marianne Bluger
*
*
*
*
all day at my desk
to glance up
at sunset
the housebricks
a deeper red
– Brian Tasker
*
*
*
*
in the ship’s wake
a pair of sea gulls
follow, then tail off
in different directions
the words I meant to say
– Carlos Colon
*
*
*
*
*
I’m never happier
than at dawn, walking down
a mountain trail,
the day ahead an empty bowl
waiting to be filled
– Karma Tenzing Wangchuk ( for Marian Olson )
*
*
*
*
thinking of my wife
I accidentally say
I love you
to a stranger’s
answering machine
– John Sheirer
*
*
*
*
it takes
this thick snowfall
to remind me
how thin and more thin
is my desire
– Sanford Goldstein
*
*
*
*
overlooking the moor
it came to me here;
a feeling of loneliness
brought by the wind
the warmth of the sun
– Brian Tasker
*
*
*
*
in morning fog
we ship our oars and drift
between loon calls
all that’s left of this world
the warmth of our bodies
– Christopher Herold
*
*
*
*
a sudden loud noise
all the pigeons of Venice
at once fill the sky
that is how it felt when your hand
accidentally touched mine
– Ruby Spriggs
*
*
*
*
the spirit again
as a crab in a shell
able to walk
sideways into the sea
and back to you
– Werner Reichhold
*
*
*
*
Snow on the peaks
of the far mountains
faintly blue…
packing my few things
for the winter road
– Karma Tenzing Wangchuk
*
*
*
*
Dressing
for a meal I’ll eat
alone
I decide to let loose
my hair.
– Pamela Miller Ness
*
*
*
*
after the long night
near my dying mother’s bed
I turn from her face
to watch the gathering light
in another morning sky
– Jerry Kilbride
*
*
*
*
one derelict boat
lost in a maze of mudflats
in the setting sun
automatically I think
of my life- nothing like that!
David Steele
*
*
*
*
a wintry evening
all the way back to the car;
hardly knowing her
yet so intimately
her perfume remains
– Brian Tasker
*
*
*
*
suddenly
caught:
the emptiness
in that girl’s
yawn
– Sanford Goldstein
*
*
*
*
when I think
we may never
meet again…
this hillside of aspens
endlessly fluttering
– Larry Kimmel
*
*
*
*
listening to you
talk about him, about you,
about them, about me,
and now, here it is, somehow
the dinner I made for us
– Christopher Herold
*
*
*
*
like receipts
of a business
gone bankrupt
I keep
these old love letters
– Kenneth Tanemura
*
*
*
*
Wind, do not tease me
do not muss my hair
My joy is too large for the house
and I cannot go in
to await his coming
– Pat Shelley
*
*
*
*
these hands
slicing onions for dinner…
but my heart has gone
to wherever it is
that you are
– Christopher Herold
*
*
*
*
warm in bed-
I wonder
where the birds
are weathering
the storm
– Kenneth Tanemura
*
*
*
*
This is a selection of some of my favorite tanka from Takuboku, whose tanka honesty I find refreshing and inspiring. It was his tanka that sparked my interest in tanka after discovering them in his book titled : Poems to Eat.
*
*
the trouble is
every man
keeps a prisoner
groaning
in his heart
*
*
came to
a mirror shop
what a jolt-
I could’ve been
some bum walking by
*
*
unforgettable
that face-
man in the street
laughing, police
dragging him off
*
*
having buried
my youth
you keep kissing
the gravestone
you built
*
*
like a train
through the wilderness
every so often
this torment
travels across my mind
*
*
everybody’s
heading in
the same direction-
I watch
from the sidelines
*
*
never forget
that man, tears
running down his face
a handful of sand
held out to show me
*
*
wrote GREAT
in the sand
a hundred times
forgot about dying
and went on home
*
*
regrets
live secretly
inside me
these days-
won’t let me laugh
*
*
feels like
there’s a cliff
in my head
crumbling
day by day
*
*
like a kite
cut from the string
the soul
of my youth
has fluttered away
*
*
always come
to this gloomy bar
the late sunset
reddening, shines
right in my drink
*
*
guy I saw
on a park bench
once or twice
don’t see
him lately…
*
*
somehow
tomorrow will
be better-
yeah, sure…
I go to sleep
Favorite Senryu- selected by Tom Clausen
15 Sunday Dec 2013
Posted in Tom selected favorites
“Great day” I say,
my neighbor, not to be outdone, says,
“Best one yet”
– Frank Robinson
**
The laugh’s on me:
this year’s man
is last year’s man
– Ching-An
**
on the freeway
discussing the chocolate bar
in the trunk
– Dee Evetts
**
The last kid picked
running his fastest
to right field
– Mike Dillon
**
deadline approaches
my nose drips
faster
– John Stevenson
**
radio interview
the candidate
adjusts her hair
– Hilary Tann
**
even with the mikes on
the politician
shouts
– Anita Virgil
**
She’s running for office-
for the first time
my neighbor waves!
– Alexis Rotella
**
neighbor’s children leave…
casually the cat slips out
of the hall closet
– Patricia Neubauer
**
birdsong
my imaginary lover
alive again
– Yu Chang
**
300 miles away-
my father makes sure
I hear him sigh
– Alexis Rotella
**
remote village
after the camera’s click
her smile
– Ruth Yarrow
**
Undressed-
today’s role dangles
from a metal hanger
– Alexis Rotella
**
channel dispute
she aims the clicker
at me
– Dee Evetts
**
nothing good on t.v.
every channel
for about three hours now
– John Sheirer
**
three times I’ve said
“your husband…”
now we can just talk
– John Stevenson
**
safe for a while
around the haiku poets
a fly
– Mykel Board
**
his dust mask
a hole poked through it
for the cigarette
– Dee Evetts
**
bad movie
I’m only awake
during the explosions
– John Sheirer
**
table for one
the waiter doesn’t
light my candle
– Bruce Detrick
**
in the breakdown lane
I contemplate
my life
– John Sheirer
**
new flypaper
she waves her arms
she waves her arms
to get them going
– Dee Evetts
**
strap hanging
a top view
of his careful hairdo
of his careful hairdo
– Karen Sohne
**
first cold night
the fat tomcat hangs from
the window screen
– Carl Patrick
**
road construction
my life
still under construction
– John Sheirer
**
his “eyeball it”
for the rest of our days
a crooked wall…
– Carol Montgomery
**
turning down the t.v.
to hear more
of the neighbors’ argument
– John Sheirer
**
my easy heart
two drinks
and it’s love
– Michael Ketchek
**
checking the driver
as I pass a car
just like mine
– John Stevenson
**
loud applause
for the last speech
before lunch
– Dee Evetts
**
while I’m gone
my dog
takes the driver’s seat
– Christopher Herold
**
Clear about
everything
the window washer
– vincent tripi
**
20,000 feet
traces of masking tape
on the jet engine
– Dee Evetts
**
Empty school bus;
smile on the face
of the driver
– Garry Gay
**
bags
under his eyes-
traveling salesman
– Michael Dylan Welch
**
Weight lifter
slowly lifting
the tea cup
– Garry Gay
**
single living
I allow the kettle
a full whistle
– Carmen Sterba
Oscar night
adjusting the cuffs
of my pajamas
– John Stevenson
**
the men on both sides
have taken
my armrests
– Karen Sohne
**
inserting a piece
in my jigsaw puzzle
the TV repairman
– Francine Porad
**
paint by number
the child’s river
escapes its bank
– Tom Painting
**
my nephew’s fast ball-
I hand back the glove
and keep the sting
– Barry George
**
morning commute-
recognizing
most of the strangers
– Dorothy McLaughlin
half-empty bed
I try to recall
his faults
– Peggy Heinrich
**
war begins-
my husband and I
stop bickering
– Margaret Chula
**
mid morning bus
no one young enough
to give up their seat
– Sheila Butterworth
**
game over
men turn to leave
the tv department
– John Stevenson
**
on my dying bed
a neighbor reads out
the ball scores
– H.F. Noyes
**
January 3rd
the Weight Watchers meeting
doubles in size
– Carolyn Hall
**
store window
the young couple take turns
testing the double bed
– Dee Evetts
**
new hammock-
my beer on the other side
of the porch
– Mark Brooks
fiftieth birthday
standing a little closer
to the toilet
– Mykel Board
**
the mirror
wiped clean
for a guest
– John Stevenson
**
long night
I adjust my breathing
to his
– Francine Porad
**
Starbuck’s
a man in cowboy boots
asks for latte
– Yu Chang
**
by phone
my sister says
we are in touch
– Hilary Tann
**
word for word
she remembers
our last argument
– John Sheirer
**
Trying to forget him
stabbing
the potatoes
– Alexis Rotella
**
running away,
Mommy
helps me pack
– Adele Kenny
**
midwest interstate
car ahead signals a turn
for fifty-nine miles
– John Sheirer
**
girls in bikinis
the man I’m with
trying not to look
– Brenda Gannam
**
on the twelfth floor
a life’s work holds open
the book-reviewer’s door
– Martin Burke
**
While the guests order,
the table cloth hides his hands-
counting his money
– Clement Hoyt
**
new dean
all blackboards
turn white
– Yu Chang
**
red light
I study the face
of my tailgater
– Hilary Tann
**
eye exam
i stop trying
so hard
– Hilary Tann
**
circuits lab
his mistakes
in the air
– Yu Chang
**
A selection of classic senryu from old time senryu anthologies in Japan:
when a man
comes asking for a loan
how honest he looks!
*
*
*
someone at the door:
the scolding session
stops – for awhile
*
*
*
when he finally
falls in love with his wife
the end is near
*
*
*
she’s been let go
yet in her mother’s words
“she’s left him”
*
*
*
“Don’t let this worry you”
he says, then tells you something
that has to worry you
*
*
*
his wife knows
how to scare a collector:
“He’s down with typhoid”
*
*
*
the weapon he uses
for threatening his mother:
a distant land
*
*
*
now that he has a child
he knows all the local dogs
by name
*
*
*
a son kicked out-
several houses down the street
a wife is divorced
*
*
*
the whole town
knows of it, except
the husband
*
*
*
“Bad for my health”-
when you begin to feel so
you’ve begun to age
*
*
*
the wife-
so much harder to handle
than the mother
*
*
*
having lash out
too much at his wife
he’s cooking the rice
*
*
*
since their baby was born
telling him what to do
has become her habit
*
*
*
suckling the baby
in bed, she shakes her head
at her husband
*
*
*
convenient
and inconvenient-
having a wife
*
*
*
no nagging on the day
her husband was a winner-
now there’s a woman!
*
*
*
“Just a father-in-law
whose days are numbered”
says the matchmaker
*
*
*
professional smile
of the mortician’s wife:
a look of grief
*
*
*
to put it briefly
courting is tantamount
to begging
*
*
*
“older daughter first”
the parents kept saying, until
the younger eloped
*
*
*
the love letter
from the man she doesn’t care for
she shows it to mother
*
*
*
first eye to eye
then hand to hand
and mouth to mouth
*
*
*
many excuses
he has used before – his wife
remembers them all
*
*
*
her husband’s
becoming a little too kind
weighs on her mind
*
*
*
united at last
in death, a pair
of happy faces
Favorite Haiku-little poems selected by Tom Clausen
15 Sunday Dec 2013
Posted in Tom selected favorites
losing its name
a river
enters the sea
— John Sandbach
children squealing
slowly the oldest gorilla
focuses elsewhere
— Ruth Yarrow
The thief left it behind,
the moon
at the window
— Ryokan
What is really ours? In the sense of this haiku ( my personal favorite) what we “own” or possess may be very little… perhaps our memories of who we once were or what we once had… perhaps some understanding and then…
The moon
broken again and again on the sea
so easily mends
— Choshu
aware
of the heart:
handling glassware
— Raymond Roseliep
A firefly flitted by:
“Look”! I almost said
but I was alone
— Taigi
Simply trust:
do not the petals flutter down,
just like that
— Issa
poppy-
both of us
simply alive
— Issa
The next morning
rereading the last page
of the happy ending
— Tom Tico
free at last, the fly
flew out the window-and then
right back in again
— James Hackett
monastery bell
the curled cat opens its eyes
closes them again
— Jerry Kilbride
Today it struck me-
the thought of red suns setting
after I’m gone
— Gunther Klinge
vacation over–
hearing the sea
in the traffic’s roar
— Pamela Miller Ness
the old cat carries off
a little sunshine
on his back
— Anita Virgil
Everyone is asleep
there is nothing to come between
the moon and me
— Enomoto Siefu-Jo
warm evening
an open door
to someone’s living room
— John Stevenson
This huge ocean-
I could stand here forever
it would still come to me
— Proxade Davis
when I have sat long enough
the red dragonfly
comes to the wheatgrass
— Laurie Stoelting
Resting…
the sagging fence
goes on up the hill
— Foster Jewell
coming home
flower
by
flower
— Jane Reichhold
fence fallen away
I close the rusted gate
behind me
— Yvonne Hardenbrook
in the pollen
on my car
her signature
— John Stevenson
old passport
the tug
of my father’s smile
— Yu Chang
cabin steps
fresh birch seeds
since morning
— Hilary Tann
as the light fails,
still hammering
from the treehouse
— Lee Gurga
noh play-
watching the throat
behind the mask
— Hilary Tann
waiting for you
another pair of headlights
through the fog
— Yu Chang
amber light…
creased in the roadmap
a place we’ve been
— Peggy Willis Lyles
Across the fields
a swallow carrying one hair
from the plow horse
— vincent tripi
migrating geese-
once there was so much
to say
— Adele Kenny
lone red-winged blackbird
riding a reed in high-tide-
billowing clouds
— Nick Vigilio
in autumn rain
looking back at the smoke
from my chimney
— Anita Virgil
in the mountains
a roadhouse sign goes out
clouds blow off the stars
— Cor van den Heuvel
The little breeze
that touched my face
returns
— Alexis Rotella
a deep bruise
I don’t remember getting
autumn evening
— John Stevenson
crowded bus through fog
someone singing
in another language
— Ruth Yarrow
In this empty web,
left by a will to be free
a pair of small wings
— James Hackett
Just leaves
where the carnival
was
— Alexis Rotella
winter evening
leaving father’s footprints
I sink into deep snow
— Nick Virgilio
stalled car
foot tracks being filled
with snow
— Gary Hotham
the river-
coming to it with nothing
in my hands
— Leatrice Lifshitz
how silently
the wave-tossed log is beached
and snow-flaked
— Geraldine C. Little
At the summit tree,
my exhausted dog lifts his leg
a dry formality
— James Hackett
the old man
blows his nose then smells
the daisy
— John Wills
Moving with
the clock tower’s shadow
the flower lady
— Alexis Rotella
as the sun comes out
a sail appears from behind
the island
— Cor van den Heuvel
summer night
the tide flows
from the estuary
— John Stevenson
On the rabbit’s fur
just enough snow
to be snow
— vincent tripi
at the corner
she finds a wind to spin
the pinwheel faster
— Gary Hotham
old slippers
the comfort
coming apart
— John Stevenson
night of the blizzard:
my snow angel glowing
under a street lamp
— Adele Kenny
a crow in the snowy pine
inching up a branch,
letting the evening sun through
— Nick Virgilio
no sound to this
spring rain-
but the rocks darken
— Anita Virgil
dark road
sparks from a cigarette
bounce behind a car
— Cor van den Heuvel
Old Lincoln-
a deeper lavender
where the wrench lay
— Alexis Rotella
another bend
now at last the moon
and all the stars
— John Wills
pueblo roof edge
Hopi mother pats the dance
into her baby’s back
— Ruth Yarrow
An old spider web
low above the forest floor,
sagging full of seeds
— James Hackett
The day i find,
the day it finds,
firefly
— vincent tripi
Indian summer-
we ride around town
just to be riding
— Lenard D. Moore
Saturday downpour-
swiveling the stool
at the soda counter
— H.F. Noyes
A wisp of spring cloud
drifting apart from the rest
slowly evaporates
— Tom Tico
Old pond:
frog jump in
water sound
— Basho
oppossum bones
wedged in an upper fork-
budding leaves
— Lee Gurga
A Halloween mask
floating face up in a ditch
slowly shakes its head
— Clement Hoyt
Lean-to of tin;
a pintail on the river
in the pelting rain
— Robert Spiess
In a tight skirt
a woman sweeping leaves
into the wind
— Virginia Brady Young
a poppy…
a field of poppies!
the hills blowing with poppies
— Michael McClintock
the flick of high beams-
out of the dark roadside ditch
leaps a tall grass clump
— Paul O. Williams
fog moves through
the burned out house:
gently
— Jack Cain
Since settling to earth
the high spirit of that kite
has gone completely
— Kubouta
quietly
we become
audience
— Hilary Tann
a bit of birdsong
before we start
our engines
— John Stevenson
yesterday’s paper
in the next seat-
the train picks up speed
— Gary Hotham
The feeling and sense of this wonderful haiku have stuck with me for years. Being in this moment is to be touched by all that is constantly left behind. The newspaper is a token of what was, not what is, and as such presents a potent reminder in concert with the train’s picking up speed that the moment is fleeting and quickly lost. You have a sense of being alone and looking to the empty next seat and there’s a random wonder about whether yesterday’s news is worthy of retrieving. The paper and the train’s motion together fill you with a depth of recognition that captures perfectly the heart of loneliness, of leaving and of transience, creating at once the poignancy of an instant.
From As Far as the Light Goes, LaCrosse, Wisconsin: Juniper Press, 1990
commentary published in Woodnotes #25 Summer 1995
after the garden party the garden
— Ruth Yarrow ( Wind Chimes #7, Winter 1983)
Among many haiku I read early on that awakened my interest and inspired my sense of just what a haiku is, I still rank this spare poem by Ruth Yarrow as very influential. The contrast of the garden filled with people and emptied out is at once familiar, vivid and crystal clear. To attend an event with many people and share comraderie, place, and a common memory creates a multilayered response to suddenly be in this same place later, alone. Indelibly the garden is revealed in itself without everyone else there.
We are left to determine how this now empty garden makes us feel. Are we sad the party is over? Are we glad to be free of the social obligations and noisy commotion? This freedom of determination and variety of readings helped me begin to identify critical qualities of a successful haiku. The magic and charm of this garden after its garden party is found in savoring the beauty and intricacy of each and every thing there that we are open to once the party is over. Without the distraction of others or the self performing itself we come closer to a genuine communion with the gardens of our lives.
( commentary published in Woodnotes #30 Autumn 1996)
Late autumn-
a single chair waiting
for someone yet to come
— Arima Akito
sand storm
the scorpion’s stinger
aiming at the wind
— William Cullen Jr.
so many boulders
in the stream all of the water
finding its way
— David Elliot
We are made up of mostly water and constantly it is finding its way through our life. To imagine how much water passes through us in a lifetime is to recognize how truly we are each a fleshy filter experiencing the very river of our existence.
All the water finding its way through so many boulders is a beautiful and reassuring statement about each of us finding our way through the myriad trials and tribulations of life. Each season of our lives is rife with “boulders.” At times we are frustrated, if not terrified or exhausted, by these barricades and the process of negotiating passage past them. The wisdom of time equalling change and the zen of now expresses exactly the deliverance that exists in moving…toward destiny… the way. Destiny is movement, and even when we are seemingly still in ourselves the planet continues to plow space, circling its way through the dark-light spin. People gather and empty out of a space… rooms fill with glee and then silence and wind blows on the peak top.
We are always in motion, as is the essential nature of water. Our form is perpetually the miracle dance that is emptiness defining itself. This simple, brilliant haiku says it all so well… and on the way too.
( published in Brussels Sprout, vol. X:2, 1993 )
low over the railroad
wild geese flying-
a moonlit night
— Shiki
in the shadow of the cherry blossom
complete strangers
there are none…
— Issa
the first dream of the year-
I kept it a secret
and smiled to myself
— Sho-u
father and son
hunching along together-
the snow banked road
— H.F. Noyes
snowy night
sometimes you can’t be
quiet enough
— John Stevenson
Drifting round a bend
– the sliding turtles plash
tells a downstream deer
— Robert Spiess
This haiku by Robert Spiess irresistably draws us into the concentric connections that make the haiku way the perfection that is nature. The motion of the canoe ( or water) drifting is like each of us rounding each moment in our lives. Daily by chance or design we encounter myriad meanings in our experiences. Our momentum forward is inextricably linked to everything we come in contact with. We effect and we are affected. This is the setting up a chain of gently reacting images. We, the canoe, cause a turtle to slide, whose sound, so subtle is the reduced plash, in turn causes a deer to perk its ear, which in turn comes back to us as the images expand and complete a circuit at once. The resonance operates simply yet profoundly in infinite fashion throughout our lives. Our part in the cycle of sense awareness from surface to depth and back again seems to be at the core of haiku fascination. The way in which one entity touches another, then another, reverberating in each the other is the precious faith and brilliance of haiku.
( published in Brussels Sprout v. VI, Issue 3, 1989 )
car piled with luggage
straying into the funeral
procession
— Yvonne Hardenbrook
One of the tests of a poem’s strength is how well it holds up over repeated readings. A favorite of mine that continues to intrigue me is this odd and humoristic image that Yvonne captures so aptly. A car loaded down with one’s worldly belongings is an obvious sight. The person/ people moving are in contradictory states of being. Burdened by belongings can create a vulnerable awkwardness that in part is offset by some comfort that comes from having so much of one’s life close at hand.
That this potent load is juxtaposed with a funeral is a priceless peek at mystery itself. A funeral procession often creates a striking image that amidst regular life seems out of place and deserving of notice. To combine someone moving with this procession is to suggest that in death we make our biggest move. The only possession we take along is the procession of family and friends as they make their way to pay respects.
This poem elicits a constant tip of the hat to what’s mysterious in life moving with death. It also alludes to the universal truth that our last move, in death, is always without any luggage.
( published in Brussels Sprout, v. XI: 1, 1994 )
empty tracks
a stranger and I
looking in the same direction
— Yu Chang
music two centuries old-
the color flows
out of the teabag
— Gary Hotham
This beautiful haiku brings out asubliminal sense of interpenetration where things are most realized when they are in concert with a medium. Music exists in many forms yet is most vital when performed, played and appreciated by listeners. The musical notes on a page are truly music only when combined with each other and the synthesis of instruments, practice, direction, technology and an audience. Similarly tea in a teabag becomes tea ultimately only when it enters the water in a teacup. The magic of this poem is this correspondance, where two disparate events are shown to share an essence of the same fundamental truth. This underlying truth suggests that everything depends upon and is in relation to other things. This association and awareness is where reading and writing haiku begins.
( published in Brussels Sprout, v.XII: 2 , 1995 )
far at sea
a tiny bird
rests on flotsam
— Margaret Molarsky
open to the sky
the upper window
of the abandoned barn
— Bruce Ross
End of autumn-
I leave the gate to the garden
ajar
— Alexis Rotella
To hear it,
not to hear myself
waterfall
— vincent tripi
up late-
the furnace comes on
by itself
— Gary Hotham
he removes his glove
to point out
Orion
— Raymond Roseliep
Sunflower
its head now too heavy
to meet the sun
— Karma Tenzing Wangchuk
watching the sun disappear
then standing, to watch it
disappear again
— Hilary Tann
autumn twilight:
the wreath on the door
lifts in the wind
— Nick Virgilio
in the bucket
bait fish
schooling
— Lea Lifshitz
rolling a cigarette
the canoe drifts
just where I want to go
— Michael Ketchek
my hand moves out
touches the sun
on a log
— John Wills
After I step
through the moonbeam-
I do it again
— George Swede
up from the sea wall
a plume of spray
filled with dusk light
— Geraldine C. Little
warm rain before dawn:
my milk flows into her
unseen
— Ruth Yarrow
leaving us
to find our own light
last of the sun
— Marian Olson
on a mountain trail
alone-
but never alone
— Margaret Molarsky
alone…
a downdraft
stirs the ashes
— R.A. Stefanac
lonely night
the faces painted on the windows
of a toy bus
— Cor van den Heuvel
Summer night:
we turn out all the lights
to hear the rain
— Peggy Willis Lyles
phone call
from a faraway friend
the cat starts purring
— Penny Harter
warm kitchen
the rise and fall
of friend’s laughter
— Barry George
beneath the stars
hand in hand
with my son
— Michael Ketchek
an ocean away-
I try to draw her closer
with pad and pencil
— Karma Tenzing Wangchuk
Nightfall-
the rose lets go
its red
— Alexis Rotella
hand to hand-
the unframed photos
of her life
— Gary Hotham
beach walk
the stick I tossed
yesterday
— Tom Painting
freight train
moving all
the caterpillar’s hair
— vincent tripi
station by moonlight-
one traveler gets out
and one gets on
— Cor Langedij
May morning
the door opens
before I knock
— John Stevenson
the geese have gone-
in the chilly twilight
empty milkweed pods
— Cor van den Heuvel
Now and again
a birdsong gives rest
to the monk’s silence
— vincent tripi
Not a ginkgo on the block
yet this leaf
on my front step
— Alexis Rotella
falling on a face
in the small seaport window-
evening sunlight
— Gunther Klinge
The resthome van–
toothless old faces smile
as a firetruck races past
— David LeCount
waves crash
against the pier – the bottle
slips from my hand
— Michael Ketchek
hot night
turning the pillow
to the cool side
— Cor van den Heuvel
The waves now fall short
of the stranded jelly fish…
In it shines the sky
— O. Mabson Southard
snow patches
thicket along the stream
snags the fog
— Ruth Yarrow
fountain spray
and the blindman’s upturned face
finding each other
— H.F. Noyes
no longer dripping
the icicle holds
the sunset
— Ruth Yarrow
freshly fallen snow-
opening a new package
of typing paper
— Nick Avis
lulling me to sleep
the rain
then waking me
— Michael Dudley
the frustrated fly
drops to the window sill
and throws a buzzing fit
— James Hackett
If I go alone,
I’ll lie in the wildflowers
and dream of you
— Rod Willmot
Summer night:
in my eyes starlight
hundreds of years old
— George Swede
That breeze brought it-
a moment of moonlight
to the hidden fern.
— Foster Jewell
fireworks
I close my eyes
for a second look
— John Stevenson
birdsong
through open windows
he lifts the veil
— Peggy W. Lyles
distant glimmer
of a beach fire-
autumn moonrise
— Marje Dyck
two crabs
grappling with locked claws
taken by a wave
— Robert Zukowski
long sermon-
in the roof beams
cobwebs flutter
— Dean Summers
leaves budding
a little girl
spinning in her dress
— John Stevenson
Dusk over the lake
a turtle’s head emerges
then silently sinks
— Virgil Hutton
lily:
out of the water…
out of itself
— Nick Virgilio
in this warm spring rain
tiny leaves are sprouting
from the eggplant seed
— Basho
west- bound train
the winter sunset
lasts awhile
— Donna Claire Gallagher
November evening-
the wind from a passing truck
ripples a roadside puddle
— Cor van den Heuvel
geese overhead
the dog stops licking
to listen
— Joann Klontz
The hills
release the summer clouds
one…by one…by one
— John Wills
birthcry!
the stars
are all in place
— Raymond Roseliep
Shooting the rapids!
– a glimpse of a meadow
gold with buttercups
— Robert Spiess
shooting the rapids-
even the back of his head
looks surprised
— H.F. Noyes
low tide-
stones that have dried
among those that haven’t
— John Stevenson
sitting
where I sat as a child
I wait out the storm
— Hilary Tann
not seeing
the room is white
until that red apple
— Anita Virgil
I am one
who eats his breakfast
gazing at the morning glories
— Basho
breakfasting
with the morning glories-
painted on my cup
— H.F. Noyes
On the gray church wall,
the shadow of a candle
… shadow of its smoke
— L.A. Davidson
Morning:
catching that tail-end
of a dream
— Michael McClintock
late afternoon:
cattle lie
in the billboard shade
— Randy Brooks
The fog has settled
around us. A faint redness
where the maple was.
— Claire Pratt
twisting inland,
the sea fog takes awhile
in the apple trees
— Michael McClintock
I look up
from writing
to daylight.
— William Higginson
evening star
almost within
the moon’s half-curve
— William Higginson
the evening star
just above the snow the tip
of an alder bush
— Nick Avis
Winter moon;
a beaver lodge in the marsh,
mounded with snow
— Robert Spiess
i catch
the maple leaf then let
it go
— John Wills
after Beethoven
he gets the furnace
roaring
— Raymond Roseliep
feeling foolish love
for the water in the stream
just passing by
— H.F. Noyes
overtaken
by a single cloud,
and letting it pass
— Michael McClintock
summer sunrise
a man on a ladder
changing the price of gas
— John Stevenson
the hidden path
through the woods
plain with snow
— Jim Kacian
I read
she reads
winter evening
— Lee Gurga
I sink a little bridge
to the aquarium floor-
first day of summer
— Emiko Miyashita
Winter morning-
the sound of a board
hitting the pile
— Barry George
old garden shed
the insecticide can
full of spiders
— Ernest Berry
still ahead of us
the storm
we’ve been driving toward
— John Stevenson
legs pawing
the summer wind-monarch
in the wiper blade
— Lee Gurga
Hiking by full moon-
the rockslide a spill of light
down the mountain
— David Elliott
The fire-fly
gives light
to its pursuer
— Oemaru
quietly
the fireworks
far away
— Gary Hotham
After gazing at stars…
now, I adjust to the rocks
under my sleeping bag
— Tom Tico
The distant mountains
are reflected in the eye
of the dragonfly
— Issa
hiking
into the clouds
the view within
— Garry Gay
migrating birds-
the weight
of my first voters’ guide
— Fay Aoyagi
crab
washed ashore
each feeler intact
— Francine Porad
First Christmas-
my daughter plays
with a cardboard box
— Kathy Cobb
lighting the woodstove
he kneels absorbed
in last year’s newspaper
— Dee Evetts
snow now rain
your picture
by mine
— Gary Hotham
picking the last pears
yellow windows hang
in the dusk
— Ruth Yarrow
old Indian trail
we too,
pause for the view
— Margaret Molarsky
rainswept parking lot
headlights of a locked car
grow dim
— Charles Dickson
everytime
the bushes dip the bees
change places
— John Wills
family album-
the black and white
of my youth
— Jim Kacian
morning twilight…
horse asleep in the pasture
covered with frost
— Lee Gurga
november evening
the faintest tick of snow
upon the cornstalks
— John Wills
change of kimono:
showing only her back
to the blossom’s fragrance
— Chiyo-ni
glancing back
the woman I passed
grows lovelier
— Jeffrey Winke
spring twilight…
the hanging fern
turns
— Anita Virgil
over and over
on the railway embankment
the same scrawny tree
— Doris Heitmeyer
end of the line
the conductor starts turning
the seats around
— Cor van den Heuvel
in one room
everything she has
and a window
— Lea Lifshitz
rainstorm on the pond;
beaver pushing a poplar limb
to plug the dam
— Charles Dickson
the swan’s head
turns away from sunset
to his dark side
— Anita Virgil
The Beloved-
how simple
the bear sniffs the air
— vincent tripi
A cloud of bugs
busy going nowhere
in a ray of sun
— James Hackett
casting stones
in a quiet pool
for company
— Jim Normington
deepening autumn-
soundless drift of leaves
against the boathouse
— H.F. Noyes
sixteenth autumn since
barely visible grease marks
where he parked his car
— Nick Virgilio
the evening paper
on the darkening lawn
first star
— Cor van den Heuvel
figure drawing class-
in the models deepest shadows
a stark white string
— Lee Gurga
A long wedge of geese
straw gold needles of the larch
on the flowing stream
— Robert Spiess
slowly too
grass where we loved
realigning
— vincent tripi
Slow mountain descent
the turbulent river gentles
into a lake
— Jean Jorgensen
the geese fly off…
and it comes to me
that I am still here
— H.F. Noyes
walking the snow-crust
not sinking
sinking
— Anita Virgil
Two flies, so small
it’s a wonder they ever met,
are mating on this rose
— James Hackett
calm evening
alone on the porch I rouse
the windchimes
— Yvonne Hardenbrook
bursting free
from a box-shaped pruning
forsythia branches
— Francine Porad
up late with old friends…
my daughter and her blankie
out of the dark
— Randy Brooks
reading a mystery
a cool breeze comes through
the beach roses
— Cor van den Heuvel
Compassion-
the taste of the pear
bruised by other pears
— vincent tripi
dispute at second base
the catcher lets some dirt
run through his fingers
— Cor van den Heuvel
field of wild iris-
the pinto pony
kicks up his heels
— Elizabeth Searle Lamb
schools out-
a boy follows his dog
into the woods
— Randy Brooks
a dusting of snow
tire tracks grow visible
in the road’s soft edge
— Dee Evetts
in the pack rat’s nest
bits of an old calendar,
a tarnished spoon
— Elizabeth S. Lamb
autumn twilight-
in the closed barbershop
the mirrors darken
— Cor van den Heuvel
a deep gorge…
some of the silence
is me
— John Stevenson
long meeting
I study the pattern
embossed on the napkin
— Miriam Borne
why does the mandarin duck
float alone-
first winter rain
— Chiyo-ni
a warm gust…
back through the gate it comes
the whole pile of leaves
— Christopher Herold
all those haiku
about the moon in the trees
the moon in the trees
— John Stevenson
my high wire act
for you
and this moon
— Fay Aoyagi
fog…
just the tree and I
at the bus stop
— Jerry Kilbride
winter beach
a piece of driftwood
charred at one end
— John Stevenson
nudged by her boot tip
to the sidewalk’s edge
a dead sparrow
— Pamela Miller Ness
between cities
on the interstate
so many stars
— Karen Sohne
darkening road
wind parts the fur
of the dead cat
— Dee Evetts
two lines in the water…
not a word between
father and son
— Randy Brooks
heat lightning
the cow’s udder
shivers
— John Stevenson
cloud shadow
long enough to close
the poppies
— Christopher Herold
monastery cell-
a blue window opens
to sea and sky
— Karma Tenzing Wangchuk
Aging willow leafs out
its image unsteady
in the flowing stream
— Robert Spiess
fluttering madly-
butterfly in the slipstream
of a passing freight
— Lee Gurga
Takeoff:
in the runway crack
a single weed
— Ross Kremer
letting go
leaves pass leaves
holding on
— Robert Henry Poulin
a bike in the grass
one wheel slowly turning-
summer afternoon
— Lee Gurga
after all these years
ankle deep
in the other ocean
— Pamela Miller Ness
wind in the pampas grass
the rowboat strains
against its mooring
— Ce Rosenow
dragonflies mating-
the outboard motor
coughs into life
— Charlie Trumbull
the farther into it,
the farther it moves away-
spring mist
— Wally Swist
rows of corn
stretch to the horizon-
sun on the thunderhead
— Lee Gurga
night journey-
entering town
I lose the stars
— Hilary Tann
Milky Way-
carefully she spreads
the quilt
— Yu Chang
new snow
the arc
the door makes
— John Stevenson
candlelight dinner-
his finger slowly circles
the rim of his glass
— Lee Gurga
one broken pane
remaining in the shed
full moon
— Wally Swist
at rest
on the hospice wall
a mayfly
— Charlie Trumbull
beads of water
on the manzanita leaf
none touch
— Karma Tenzing Wangchuk
winter sun
a stranger makes room
without looking
— John Stevenson
blinding snow
there is no need
to understand everything
— Yu Chang
January thaw
easing the log
into the current
— Hilary Tann
for my birthday
another trip
around the sun
— Jim Kacian
each hole in turn…
a wasp checks out
where the bolts pulled loose
— Charlie Trumbull
exploring the cave…
my son’s flashlight beam
disappears ahead
— Lee Gurga
in the dark she whispers to me
“the deer have eaten
my tulips”
— Ronald Baatz
steady summer rain…
an old swayback farmhouse
by the road
— Bruce Ross
missing you-
windows rattle
with the wind
— Ce Rosenow
deep twilight-
the abandoned horse pasture
thick with buttercups
— Wally Swist
a squirrel leaping
from a tree in the rain
loves the soft earth of april
— Ronald Baatz
last bale of hay-
we sit down on it
and watch the moon
— Lee Gurga
curling tighter
a leaf
ctaches fire
— John Stevenson
a stone
i saved
casting stones
— Stanford M. Forrester
autumn morning-
repainting our bedroom
the color it was
— Mike Spikes
hot afternoon
the squeak of my hands
on my daughter’s coffin
— Leonard Moore
River stones
worn smooth
I have no regrets
— Garry Gay
autumn wind
the leaves are going
where I’m going
— John Stevenson
going out the door
i pass a grape that had
rolled away from breakfast
— Ronald Baatz
dawn mists rise…
the river bottom covered
with mud-ckaed stones
— Wally Swist
from one end
of the plane to the other
winter fly
— Charlie Trumbull
I finish my tea
the cup still full
of warmth
— Philomene Kocher
starry night-
biting into a melon
full of seeds
— Yu Chang
as if
it had split the boulder
pine seedling
— paul m.
Cabin fever-
spinning the child’s globe
until it blurs blue
— Carol Purington
first frost
a homeless man appears
in the new development
— Yu Chang
old railway bed
the ties
remain
— Hilary Tann
mountain moonrise
the sound I didn’t know
I had in me
— Peter Yovu
cycling with my son-
this is the autumn
I fall behind
— Curtis Dunlap
longing for something-
an unknown seabird
soars out of sight
— Ce Rosenow
milky way-
even the know-it-all
speechless
— Hank Dunlap
autumn downpour
a tow truck pulling
another
— Carlos Colon
pull of the moon
I am not myself
tonight
— Yu Chang
the broken harp string
curving
into sunlight
— Elizabeth Searle Lamb
Selected Haibun by Tom Clausen
15 Sunday Dec 2013
Posted in Tom selected favorites
Going to Grandma’s
When we were young my mother would pack our old ’52 Plymouth in the chill of morning for our journey from Ithaca to East Berkshire, Vermont, to see Grandma. The trip was always a long, full day of driving with wonderful sights yet much squirmy energy to contain. Year after year we made this trip so that images along the way became indelibly etched in my memory.
out to pasture
a Ford Fairlane
with it’s hood up
The road rising and falling, stretching straight at times, and always moving ahead built up a whole set of anticipations and images to look for. I would keenly watch for picture perfect farms, cows in their pastures, majestic willows following a stream, dream houses with lovely porches, horizons near and far, bridges big and small. Roadkills, particularly skunks, as well as railroad crossings with their twin bumps, would always heighten the passage. It was fascinating to glimpse abandoned houses, burned down barns, junkyards, factories, cemeteries, billboards, freight cars next to warehouses and to pass through little towns with their five and dime hearts gave me plenty to fuel my childhood imagination. The road, even in stretches of emptiness, would captivate my curiosity and pique my early sense of space all flowing together.
freight train going our way…
silently saying the names
on the box car walls
Despite the external flowing landscape the most passionate activity on these trips was the inevitable teasing and squabbles that broke out between my sister, Heidi and me. Since she was two years younger it was hard to reconcile her being both bigger and stronger! The back seat was a universe unto us, and the typical trip would at some point develop the drawing of a battle line. Although the line was imaginary, it was nonetheless important in formalizing our taunts and tussels. It created a boundary of tension and a chance to tempt fate. We were a brother and sister occupying a small space and had over 325 miles to engage in combat.
the little hairs
on my sisters arms;
how similar to mine
The verbal bickering usually escalated to fake nonchalant hand placements over the line, reprisals, poundings on shoulders and arms, glares of defiance, allegations of blame, sneers, and appeals to the front seat for justice. Violations of decency required a referee. After a few shrill exchanges, a few appeals, the car would stop. Our mother, no longer able to tolerate us would pull over and order me to get out and run… yes, run, and run along the side of the road far enough to be tired enough hopefully to get back in the car tired out and able to sit peacefully still and quiet for awhile.
our new used car
several old cigarette butts
in the ash tray
One of these times on a stretch of road in a remote area as I ran along I noticed the Plymouth getting smaller and smaller until I got completely out of sight. The forest on either side of the road invited glances and the powerful thought that I could just veer off and disappear in those deep woods forever. Wouldn’t she be sorry, I smugly imagined, but just enough of that early childhood self-survival instinct vetoed the getting- lost -in-the-woods detour! I kept running as fast as I could, fully aware of a certain triumph that could be obtained by the sheer distance ahead I could go.
a sparkplug
in the roadside gravel;
pocketing it
The road began to curve and I realized that I was way out of sight and well beyond the distance that my mother usually let me get.. What a feeling: to be a kid, alone, running in a strange unexpected place; lungs, heart, arms and legs all churning and pulling onwards, ahead with some mysterious charm to the moment. Suddenly a pick-up truck came up from behind and pulled along side of me. A man at the wheel leaned over and yelled out the window: “Kid, do you want a lift?” I hesitated, amazed, tempted, but then said, “No, I guess not, I’ll be getting a ride with someone soon.” I said this half looking back and half wishing I could see the Plymouth, but it was not in sight. A slight shiver passed through me. I could have gotten in that truck, I could have run away with help. That would have been a pivotal moment heading me into a completely different life.
a long way
from home my pillow
in the car
As it was the Plymouth soon did reappear and leap frogged ahead of me. I ran some more, now really tired and ready to get in. I was breathing heavily and without any words didn’t even give my sister a look. For quite some time I sat peacefully and quietly, looking out the window, full of private thoughts and considerations of my young little life. The run had done just what my mother had wanted. I was able to sit awhile very nicely. It would take dozens of years for me to realize that it is moments like these that help keep a family together, What I felt that day, long ago, was in a brilliant little bundle of moments what being young is all about.
mother driving…
the passing tractor trailer
buffets our car
In the Woods
In 1962 when I was eleven I fancied myself to be a Last of the Mohican, Huckleberry Finn, outback wilderness child, and had chosen the name “Wonapsa” to inspire and fulfill the fantasies I played out in the woods and gorges behind our house. The woods contained the world I loved, both real and imaginary. I would spy on rabbits, chipmunks, and woodpeckers. Sometimes I would sit as still as I could to see what being a ghost was all about. I laid on the ground, smelling the dirt and embracing a patch of earth just my size. I would climb trees listening to the wind sigh in the boughs and learn the creak that comes from deep in trees. The woods were filled with secrets I wanted to know.
sun after rain-
the garter snake fresh
from its skin
In the spring it was momentous to find mayapples and hepaticas and know new life arises from the litter and wreckage of winters’ leaving. One day while scampering up and down steep slopes in random search for tiny skulls, feathers, fossils or a special perch to sit awhile, I peeked over a ridge top to see a man and a woman lying out on a ledge a way below me. What they were doing I had roughly heard about but never seen. The trees between me and them were few but a bit of guilt kept me from a steady stare. I became aware of the unlikliness of what I was witnessing and felt an exhileration of discovery. To see their flesh while they kept some clothes on filled me with curiosity. I do not remember a distinct conclusion, my memory choosing to focus on the unison of their movements.
That night my heart and mind recreated it all over and over. What images I had seen. How purely animal and natural they were. How unexpected and free a view I had.
Years go by and that ledge is still there. My walks in the woods these days sometimes pass that place. I always look a little and remember. I’ve never seen anyone else there.
barren woods-
a clump of wild onion
scents the air
( published in Wedge of Light, 1999, Press Here, Foster City, California)
Graduation
The iffy weather holds and the whole ceremony occurs magnificently without rain. Extended families in their finest. Toddlers swagger about the edge of the overflow seating. The speeches are both grand and generic, and appropriately inventory many inspired concepts to send this group into the next life. Balloons are released, cameras are reloaded, video runs, and cheers of jubilation arise here and there from the mass as subsets of the group are specified. Just as the processional marched in it is not long before everyone slowly files out. Six thousand students, thirty thousand relatives, friends, ushers, speakers, dignitaries, professors, staff, emergency personnel, and myself caught up in this sea of spectacle. I work near here and pass this site nearly every day. This is the one hundred twenty-eighth graduation to be held at this place.
in the rain
outside the empty stadium
a penny
New Life
It begins at the beginning; baby things, a cradle, diapers, wipes, sleepers, onesies, rattles, cuddly bears and before you know it there is a high chair, crayons, markers, glitter, legos, duplos, playmobile, comics, books, socks, mittens, hats and how quickly things are outgrown.
When you don’t pay enough attention to young ones things happen to insure you do pay enough attention. Days become a mess here, a spill there and soon it becomes a plunder all around until finally after countless episodes of distress , a whole day of monitoring, pick-up and attention is done. Readiness for the next day cavalcade must be made. Zombie-like puzzling over how draining and challenging parenthood is, I remark to my wife how exhausting it is to be at home with the children. She says the secret is to keep things moving and to get out of the house.
frantic
she tells me she never loses
her keys
In the Middle
You can sit on a lawn or in a field, or forest or by a stream; almost anyplace and just sit there sensing whatever. The longer you sit the better for settling out the business of the mind and becoming open to the myriad senses of sound, sight, smell and the way all manner of life is right there to discover…
page by page
she knows on each one
where Waldo is
New Sneakers
When our 5 and 1/2 year old son, Casey, began a campaign for new sneakers it awakened in me the memories of my own childhood love affair with the nearly annual new pair. For a child there is an extr-sensory exhileration that comes from having one’s feet laced into a springy new pair of sneakers.
Casey had been pleading for weeks for a new pair of Nikes. At first I was mildly disturbed that he was brand and style conscious at only 5. After all, my childhood sneakers had been plain canvas skippy’s bought at Five-and-Dime stores, and had been absolutely captivating to me. Furthermore, as an adult I’ve never warmed up to the large, clumpy, light-up-glaring barges that so many kids adore today. Oh well, my doubts were soon replaced by vicarious enjoyment of his pleasure with his new Nikes. He had me hold them, inspect their tread and note every feature of their design.
Watching Casey run, jump, skip and thoroughly exalt about in his new sneakers made it perfectly clear he was proud, enthused and inspired by the collaboration of his dream come true in the form of two pieces of rubber life attached to his feet. I was instructed to look closely at the first grass stains and the first mud in the tread. In general much focus that first day was placed firmly on his embellished feet! I knew they would get old like many prized toys past their peak of charm, yet I’ll never forget that night when still brand new these sneakers were the magic of a young heart and mind.
five year old snuggles
his new sneakers
in bed
Fruittree
Our son has named him Fruittree although Luna was the name we gave him when we brought him home from the SPCA. Fruittree quickly established himself as a destructive presence, clawing furniture, shredding curtains, getting up on our mantle, different dressers and knocking off breakable things. He demands attention with an effective caterwaul that he keeps up until he gets his way, which is usually to get out or be let back in. Besides the caterwaul when he wants”in” he resorts to leaping up onto window or door screens and hanging on issueing loud meows until he is let in. All the screens are in poor shape as a result of his heftiness. Fruittree sheds his white fur ferociously everywhere. He’s been known to grab bites out of food on the table if not watched closely and he views our garden as his personal over-sized kitty litter. Our fish aquarium he treats as his ready made fish soup for lapping at any time of day.
fallen asleep
beneath the feeder
our deaf cat
Sustained Time
In my ten years of married life the lack of time to be totally alone has been a chronic issue of discontent in me. When my wife and children boarded the Lake Shore Limited in Syracuse heading out to California for a month visit with the kids grandparents I felt genuine anxiety. It was to be my second significant time alone in ten years.
My first day on my own I became aware of unrealistic expectations I had placed on this time. I had envisioned this being alone for so long as a fantasy that the reality was bound to suffer some in comparison. Always my fantasy was that when alone I could and would write more and better poems, I’d read abundantly, attend movies, plays, go out to hear music, get together with friends and generally feel happier, free, relaxed, inspired, productive, decisive and more like my old self; eclectic and bohemian. I always imagined confidently that once alone I’d be able to accomplish all the myriad things I fail to accomplish when surrounded by the needs and demands of family life.
sleeping in…
that big white cloud
out the window
