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
                                           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
                                           both of us
                                           simply alive
                                                   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
the sagging fence
goes on up the hill
 – Foster Jewell
coming home
   – 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
– 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
– 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,
                                                           – 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:
                                                              – Jack Cain
                                                Since settling to earth
                                                the high spirit of that kite
                                                has gone completely
                                                         – Kubouta
we become
– 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
                                                                   – 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
           -Alexis Rotella
                                                                  To hear it,
                                                               not to hear myself
                                                                          – vincent tripi
up late-
the furnace comes on
by itself
         – Gary Hotham
                                                     he removes his glove
                                                             to point out
                                                                           – Raymond Roseliep
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
                                                                                   – 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
               – Ruth Yarrow
                                                                      leaving us
                                                                      to find our own light
                                                                      last of the sun
                                                                               – Marian Olson
on a mountain trail
but never alone
              – Margaret Molarsky
                                                                          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
                                                                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
                                                                                   – 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
I close my eyes
for a second look
     – John Stevenson
                                                             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
                                                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
   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
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
                                                          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
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
                                                                   – Raymond Roseliep
feeling foolish love
for the water in the stream
just passing by
   – H.F. Noyes
                                                                         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
                                         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
                                       into the clouds
                                       the view within
                                       – Garry Gay
                                                                  migrating birds-
                                                                  the weight
                                                                  of my first voters’ guide
                                                                   – Fay Aoyagi
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
                                                 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
  – 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
                                          – 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
                                                                        – 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
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
                                              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
                                            – 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
                                              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
  – 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
   – Hank Dunlap
autumn downpour
a tow truck pulling
  Carlos Colon
pull of the moon
I am not myself
  – Yu Chang
the broken harp string
into sunlight
  -Elizabeth Searle Lamb