white terry robe of snow
slowly sliding south
down the shingles

the eave’s nurtured icicles

white terry robe haunting the kitchen
slowly sliding south
down morning’s conjecture

the counter percolating coffee

You walk in
I melt

Good morning, you


2 haiku/shock

Winter oxygen
Invisible narcotic
Unconfined ether


Wavelengths tease winter’s self-rule
Eight degree sunshine


Ride The Wrong Train

“Be aware of your surroundings.”
“Wait, slow down.  We need to know where we are going.”
“Let me look at the map.”

There is a push for every pull.
There is a strangle hold for every soft touch on the shoulder.
There is longing with every release.

Ride the wrong train.
Walk down a different street.
Rush, the days can be short.

Dec. 23.  I throw on yesterday’s clothes and rush out the door.  I am not even sure where I am rushing, because I am not even sure where the path begins to the place I am rushing to, but I have purpose and adventure on my mind.  I rush.  I can’t remember if I bothered to brush my teeth before I adventured.  Dec. 23 is one of the shortest days of the year, and I was not worried about anything else, except this:



I did not remain aware.  I did not know where exactly I was going.  I most certainly did not look at a map.  And, (drumroll, please), I had no idea which path led back to the rental house once my escape, err, beach walk, was over. But I most assuredly resolved not to tell my “pay attention to your surroundings” husband (who was probably just getting out of bed) about my, uh, path finding folly.

The steps that lead to the public access parking lot, and a westward walk on the road was my choice to wend my way to the rental house.  On the third step I find a large whelk.  A real beauty.  I pick up the shell, and the creature inside is wiggling.  I wish I had taken a picture, but I considered this situation a sea creature emergency. Here I go rushing again…I ran back to the water and pitched the shell back to the sea to what I hope will be a long, satisfying whelk life.

Maybe I should have explained to that wiggling creature to be more careful and aware of its surroundings.  The public access steps, or the public, in general, is no good place for a whelk, but on Dec. 23, it was surely a good place for me.



1 haiku/funnel

Scheming religion
Meteor through a funnel
Miracle enough


1 haiku/allergic

From gilded towers
The allergic potentate
Chokes his sycophants


Cranky Origami

The wind gossiping
to the tree,
“Your dried leaves are cranky origami.”

The sun complaining
to the moon,
“You’re only half the orb you used to be.”

The lake thumps
to the bank,
“Spitter spatter.  Rub a dub.
Tittle tattle.  Damn, you’re cold.”


1 haiku/saintly

Mossy stone angel
Cemetery concierge
Folk culture mercy



Midway to extraordinary is
a misunderstood antidote
for nonsense.

Relocation, dislocation, circumnavigation are
subtitles for reuniting
disintegrating cooperation.

Disturb context.
You understand where I’m going?

Fly, darling, fly
where ever the prefixes


1 haiku/patina

Rusty calm
Dried suburban hush
Autumn patina




Lake Side

The lake’s side has become neglect
and the untamed field yields to
seedy, frosty October.
A week ago
there was a harvest riot of milkweed,
goldenrod and thistle seed.
The marigolds look tired.
But here there is a grateful, cheery chickadee.
Good morning.