Embedded Files
Aside from a few uninformed attempts at haiku that made their way into early college publications, my first published haiku appeared in Modern Haiku 19:3 in Autumn 1988:
my window opens
a hundred frogs
sing to the moon
The poem was inspired by a noisy culvert in Riverside, California, and by having recently purchased a copy of Hiroaki Sato’s book, One Hundred Frogs: From Renga to Haiku to English (New York: Weatherhill, 1983). In fact, the poem I submitted to Robert Spiess originally said “one hundred frogs.” Bob asked if I had actually counted them and suggested that “a hundred frogs” would feel more authentic. It was easy to say yes to this improvement and so began my relationship with the flagship journal for English-language haiku. I was paid a crisp, uncirculated dollar bill, which I still have. Since then, I’ve published about 200 haiku, senryu, sequences, and haibun in Modern Haiku, which I document here, including poems quoted in essays and reviews, even if not originally published in the journal. My thanks to Charles Trumbull for his haiku database itemization of all the poems from 1988 through 2024, although this collection may be incomplete. Poems are listed by issue, with the most recently published poems first. This list does not include any essays or book reviews I’ve also published in Modern Haiku over the years, and some poems may have appeared in ways slightly different than shown here, such as with different indents. Many of these poems have also been published elsewhere, sometimes in revised versions, and I include listings and links to some of the more prominent instances.
My gratitude to the editors of Modern Haiku who I’ve had the pleasure of working with over the years: Robert Spiess, Lee Gurga, Charles Trumbull, and Paul Miller, and I also thank them for their occasional suggestions for improvement, because in haiku even the smallest change can make a big difference.
9066
9066
a chill wind
off the sheer mountain—
Manzanar plain
Tule Lake parking lot—
a tumbleweed snagged
at a rotting fencepost
Minidoka pilgrimage—
the tour bus slows
for escaped cattle
Granada camp—
my need to look it up
on Densho
dust storm—
a story of miscarriage
from Heart Mountain
beep of the GPS—
still a long way
to Gila River
nails in the dirt
here and there . . .
faded Poston memorial plaque
a flag at half mast
at the Topaz monument—
all I can carry
walking the rows
of the Rohwer cemetery
a pair of seagulls
sunset shadows
where Jerome’s barracks were
no no
56:3, Autumn 2025, pages 126–127 [see “9066” for an updated version of this sequence, with revised and reordered poems]
death anniversary—
each dry stone reminding me
of nothing
56:2, Summer 2025, page 118
spring peeper . . .
almost as big
as its culvert
55:3, Autumn 2024, page 112
talk of war—
our plan to meet
at the watershed preserve
55:2, Summer 2024, page 114
death anniversary—
his mouth
still open
55:2, Summer 2024, page 114
windfall apples
bring the deer from the woods . . .
Seabeck sunset
55:1, Winter–Spring 2024, page 94
a ring of snow
on the flower pot—
divorce pending
54:3, Autumn 2023, page 108
in mother’s Christmas boxes
an unopened package
of tinsel
54:2, Summer 2023, page 117
light rain—
the wooden louver
clacks shut on its own
53:3, Autumn 2022, page 100
coffee shop patio—
a checkmate left
in growing drizzle
53:2, Summer 2022, page 101
fallen sparrow—
a dusting of snow
slightly melted
53:1, Winter–Spring 2022, page 115
winter doldrums—
I find myself
on YouTube
52:3, Autumn 2021, page 105
salal in shadow—
another train sign
riddled with bullet holes
52:2, Summer 2021, page 125
Bashō’s Day—
the bedside stack
another book taller
52:2, Summer 2021, page 125
emerging from clouds the snowplow’s dream
52:1, Winter–Spring 2021, page 92
Zen
med
it
at
ion
nothing
to
it
52:1, Winter–Spring 2021, page 92
Seven Flowers of Autumn
Seven Flowers of Autumn
scent of bush clover—
the toddler s toe prints
drying first
rising moon—
the sway of silver grass
over the lost softball
surgery day—
a pot of maiden pink
on the car seat
Japanese alps—
pantrinia in clumps
of sunshine
overtaking
on the woodland path
kudzu vines
the crushed leaves
smell of lavender—
boneset oil
with pudgy fingers
my daughter twirls
a morning glory
51:3, Autumn 2020, page 117 [see “Seven Flowers of Autumn”]
Four Directions
Four Directions
north wind
a conte crayon
left on the porch
east wing
the mansion tour
skips a painting
south desert
another art gallery
closed for the season
west moon
dad’s unfinished sketch
of the compass rose
51:1, Winter–Spring 2020, page 94
[title not included with the original publication, which had each of the four poems rotated around a compass rose; see “Four Directions”]
Christmas tree up—
I stir the skin
back into my soup
49:1, Winter–Spring 2018, page 116
date night we argue over which romantic comedy to watch
49:1, Winter–Spring 2018, page 116
busy road—
a theodolite left
in spring rain
48:1, Winter–Spring 2017, page 108
seven suns
lowering into the pond
Easter Sunday
48:1, Winter–Spring 2017, page 126 [quoted in a “Briefly Noted” review]
Prepare
Prepare
It begins with a jolt, enough to send us to the doorjambs. Books and ceiling tiles crash to the floor, and explosive noises ricochet far and near. I am in a nondescript city, but it seems to be home. When the first wave of noise and rumbling subsides, we realize that we’re safe and rush outside. In the dark, billows of smoke curl from a nearby apartment building, and I scramble up the hill in its direction. Others rushing the same way wear barrettes across their foreheads with Arabic numbers in LED lights. I hold a strange package with my own barrette, with no instructions except the word “PREPARE.” I am about to toss it, but something intrigues me—its exposed circuitry, the utility of its disposable design. My barrette’s number is 259. In my hand its digits start to glow.
a tiger swallowtail
flutters through my dream,
landing on my finger
At the half-destroyed building billowing smoke, dust from a crater of rubble begins to settle. Inside, a fire rages. A small, paralyzed crowd gathers. A few people point to the sky, where two sets of lights appear, far above us, to the east. One is an oval with pointed ends, outlined in white lights. It moves like a dirigible. Every few moments, a mustard light sparks from one end of the oval, aimed downward like a laser. The other is a square of faintly red lights, unmoving. In the middle of the square is a number 2. My wife’s number, in the barrette she received, is number 6. Another explosion rattles us from the next street over, and new billows of smoke catch the moonlight.
sudden chill—
the pinch I give myself
leaves a welt
47:3, Autumn 2016, page 80 [see “Prepare”]
the sound of a coin
dropped in an alley—
summer’s end
47:3, Autumn 2016, page 99
cancer ward this time we don’t say goodbye
47:2, Summer 2016, page 117
your call
at midnight—
stillborn
47:2, Summer 2016, page 117
the weight
of the trillium
I shouldn’t have picked
47:2, Summer 2016, page 117 +
hoar frost—
the shape of the garden
you used to tend
47:2, Summer 2016, page 117
red in the face
the twelfth juror
at the obscenity hearing
46:3, Autumn 2015, page 136 [quoted in a “Briefly Noted” review]
starless night—
a neighbor and I
curb our recycling
46:2, Summer 2015, page 99
at the reception
to open the haiku conference
small talk
46:1, Winter–Spring 2015, page 87
snovernight
46:1, Winter–Spring 2015, page 87
spring breeze—
the pull of her hand
as we near the pot store
46:1, Winter–Spring 2015, page 87 [see “The Pull of Her Hand”]
reunion—
last night’s rain
left in a leaf
45:1, Winter–Spring 2014, page 101
end of the day . . .
one by one we gather
by the unlit beach fire
45:1, Winter–Spring 2014, page 101
after the puppet show the puppets
44:2, Summer 2013, page 127
quiet library . . .
a yawn in reference
spreads to nonfiction
44:2, Summer 2013, page 127
desolate beach
snow starts to cling
to a little toy boat
44:2, Summer 2013, page 127
cold tea—
the snow all settled
in the snow globe
44:3, Fall 2013, page 101
taking a red leaf
back and forth
the ambulance wiper
44:3, Fall 2013, page 101
first day of spring—
I teach my son
how a knight moves
44:2, Summer 2013, page 127
[also published in Fear of Dancing, the 2013 Red Moon Anthology]
neon buddha
the exclusivity
of rhinos
41:3, Autumn 2010, page 69
[quoted in “Ground Control to the Flying Pope,” an essay by Paul Miller]
the long wait
to cross the border
neon buddha
41:3, Autumn 2010, page 69
[quoted in “Ground Control to the Flying Pope,” an essay by Paul Miller]
seven suns
disjunction
on a sycamore leaf
41:3, Autumn 2010, page 69
[quoted in “Ground Control to the Flying Pope,” an essay by Paul Miller]
seven suns
the wrench floats
in our common dream
41:3, Autumn 2010, page 69
[quoted in “Ground Control to the Flying Pope,” an essay by Paul Miller]
granddad’s coalbucket
cracked at the handle—
early autumn dusk
39:1, Winter–Spring 2008, page 88
late mourners
the rabbi switches
from Hebrew to English
39:1, Winter–Spring 2008, page 88
sudden quiet
after the computer power-down . . .
risen moon
39:1, Winter–Spring 2008, page 88 [see “From Montage”]
Christmas Eve at the mall—
mistaken for someone else
still I wave
39:1, Winter–Spring 2008, page 88
singles bar
everyone coupled
but me
38:3, Autumn 2007, page 103
missed bus—
someone’s name
in a used paperback
38:3, Autumn 2007, page 103
Parodies, Homages, Allusions
Parodies, Homages, Allusions
for you going
for me going
two urinals
a bitter loss—
college football players
without any necks
hermit crab:
out of its shell
out of itself
the parking lot gate
rises
falls
September tide—
how delightful to wade
with Birkenstocks in hand
indigo sky—
there must be 14 or 15
cumulus clouds
the street-corner preacher
points the way
with his Bible
38:3, Autumn 2007, page 104 [see “Parodies, Homages, Allusions”]
Christmas Eve—
Dad’s old snore
through the guest room wall
38:2, Summer 2007, page 72
winter solstice—
a few test papers
still unmarked
38:2, Summer 2007, page 72
landing swallow—
the ship’s chain
dips slightly
37:2, Summer 2006, page 32 [quoted in an essay; see “Landing Swallow”]
rising gas prices—
the attendant changing numbers
in a pouring rain
36:1, Winter–Spring 2005, page 76
pop fly
into the cemetery—
no one moves
35:1, Winter–Spring 2004, page 74
we walk the boardwalk hand in hand
sharing ice cream
headaches
35:1, Winter–Spring 2004, page 75
home for Christmas:
my childhood desk drawer
empty
34:3, Autumn 2003, page 30 [quoted in an essay; see “On Michael Dylan Welch”]
beach parking lot—
where the car door opened
a small pile of sand
34:3, Autumn 2003, page 30 [quoted in an essay; see “On Michael Dylan Welch”]
mountain spring—
in my cupped hand
pine needles
34:3, Autumn 2003, page 30 [quoted in an essay; see “On Michael Dylan Welch”]
morning light—
her eyebrow arches
against my cheek
34:1, Winter–Spring 2003, page 35
shooting star
shouting
shooting star
34:1, Winter–Spring 2003, page 35
scraping bottom
on a sandy shoal,
bright red canoe
33:3, Autumn 2002, page 19
the silence between us
a quail finds its way
through the underbrush
32:1, Winter–Spring 2001, page 18
[also published in The Loose Thread, the 2001 Red Moon Anthology]
lingering handshake—
the pulse
in our fingers
32:1, Winter–Spring 2001, page 25
[this poem won grand prize in the 1999 Haiku North America haiku contest, netting me
a copy of the Encyclopedia Britannica in its heirloom binding, valued at $1,200]
the clink of china
stacked in the sink . . .
an unopened letter
32:1, Winter–Spring 2001, page 25
gathered grandchildren—
the acorn
in her palm
31:3, Fall 2000, page 10
slowly through fog
the lumber barge—
cry of a hawk
31:2, Summer 2000, page 17
distant birdsong—
a row of holes in dirty snow
beneath the icicles
31:2, Summer 2000, page 17
Castro district—
a woman glances
at my girlfriend’s breasts
31:2, Summer 2000, page 30
blinking neon . . .
shadows in the face
of the sleeping vagrant
31:2, Summer 2000, page 30
behind the glass
of the just-missed subway train,
a woman’s lips moving
31:2, Summer 2000, page 30
the hills in flower . . .
a pair of wooden skis
crossed over the fireplace
31:1, Winter–Spring 2000, page 4
a new face on TV—
the regular weatherman
under the weather
31:1, Winter–Spring 2000, page 29
referendum day—
a schoolboy colours with a single crayon
over Ireland
31:1, Winter–Spring 2000, page 29
talk-show chatter—
rain streaks
my darkened reflection
30:3, Fall 1999, page 6
high tide line—
a wet moth
stops twitching
30:3, Fall 1999, page 6
too close
to the coastal gull—
the bend in its knees
30:3, Fall 1999, page 6
falling rose petals . . .
the tattoo
on the pallbearer’s arm
30:1, Winter–Spring 1999, page 14
spring sun—
a pallbearer stops
to tie his shoe
30:1, Winter–Spring 1999, page 14
open grave
the minister’s polished shoes
sinking into dark earth
30:1, Winter–Spring 1999, page 14
chess men in boxes . . .
the café’s ceiling fan
turns by itself
30:1, Winter–Spring 1999, page 14
a beer bottle—
the mountain goat
stumbling
30:1, Winter–Spring 1999, page 14
shipping the paddles,
children drift to shore
and a yipping puppy
30:1, Winter–Spring 1999, page 14
toll booth lit for Christmas—
from my hand to hers
warm change
30:1, Winter–Spring 1999, page 60
[quoted in “Haiku and Senryu at Work,” an essay by Ruth Yarrow]
summer solstice—
how faint the twittering
in the neighbour’s hedge
29:3, Fall 1998, page 21
distant, in the redwoods
the now-and-then voice
of a hiker
29:3, Fall 1998, page 21
twisted metal—
ice from the driver’s drink
melts on the pavement
29:3, Fall 1998, page 21
heat shimmers—
the dead skunk’s
pink tongue
29:3, Fall 1998, page 21
waiting waiting the train with no caboose
29:3, Fall 1998, page 21
[also published in Last Train Home: An Anthology of Contemporary Haiku, Tanka and Rengay, 2021]
snow-swept crossing—
the shudder
through freight cars
29:2, Summer 1998, page 20 [quoted in an essay]
[also published in Raku Teapot Haiku, 2003]
glow of sunrise—
after the long night
her eyes close
29:2, Summer 1998, page 20
dust-devil smell—
an appaloosa fills the shade
of trembling aspens
29:2, Summer 1998, page 20
warm night—
the neighbour’s garage door
still unoiled
29:2, Summer 1998, page 20
cats in love—
the blinds split apart
in the neighbour’s window
29:2, Summer 1998, page 20
fading sunset—
barn swallows perch
on the sagging hayrack
29:2, Summer 1998, page 20
Chicago skyline—
a nest at the apex
of a yellowing tree
29:2, Summer 1998, page 20
[chosen by Robert Spiess as second-place winner in the Haiku Chicago conference kukai in 1995]
a circle of yellow grass—
the uncoiled hose
stretches down the driveway
29:2, Summer 1998, page 21
asked about the hospital
the old woman gestures to it
with her cigarette
29:2, Summer 1998, page 34
distant moo—
the faintest of blossoms
on the pruned branch
29:1, Winter–Spring 1998, page 15
nursing home lounge—
a child’s puzzle
left unfinished
29:1, Winter–Spring 1998, page 15
gridlock
on the freeway—
the skywriting drifts
29:1, Winter–Spring 1998, page 15
[also published in Snow on the Water, the 1998 Red Moon Anthology]
lit by the sunset
waves along the shore
rolling the seal’s body
29:1, Winter–Spring 1998, page 15
full moon at midnight—
a barn owl glides
out of the slaughterhouse
29:3, Fall 1998, page 21
sudden lightning—
the street mime
claps
29:2, Summer 1998, page 20
[also published in Snow on the Water, the 1998 Red Moon Anthology]
the man with the shopping cart
—how carefully he folds
his dollar bill
28:3, Fall 1997, page 14
two crabs claw
to claw in the tidepool
the flashlight dims
28:3, Fall 1997, page 14
she loves me
she loves me not . . .
I try another daisy
28:3, Fall 1997, page 30
curtains drawn—
the faint shadows
of her hat boxes
28:2, Summer 1997, page 3 [in “Tribute for Pat Shelley”]
New Year’s Day—
I write the same list
as last year
27:1, Winter–Spring 1996, page 9
the paisley lampshade
by the broken cabin window,
dusted with snow
27:1, Winter–Spring 1996, page 9
shadowy barroom—
dirt in the wrinkles
of the saddlemaker’s hand
27:1, Winter–Spring 1996, page 9
golden sun
on the parked Mercedes—
the aerial descends
27:1, Winter–Spring 1996, page 9
the shrew’s shadow—
light
from the root cellar door
27:1, Winter–Spring 1996, page 9
record high—
this heat
even in my toothpaste
27:1, Winter–Spring 1996, page 9
[also published in The Red Moon Anthology 1996, 1997]
jazz club—
the waitress stops
to undo a button
27:1, Winter–Spring 1996, page 26
folding with the waves
from a passing swan
water lily
26:3, Fall 1995, page 25
paper route
knocking a row of icicles
from the eave
26:3, Fall 1995, page 25
30:1, Winter–Spring 1999, page 58 [quoted in “Haiku and Senryu at Work,” an essay by Ruth Yarrow]
34:3, Autumn 2003, page 30 [quoted in an essay; see “On Michael Dylan Welch”]
[also published in Cor van den Heuvel’s The Haiku Anthology, 1999]
[also published in Haiku in English: The First Hundred Years, 2013]
golden arches—
a Russian tourist
poses for the camera
26:3, Fall 1995, page 33
wind from the train
still rippling
in the wheat
26:1, Winter–Spring 1995, page 18
California drought . . .
the crack
in a wooden Buddha
26:1, Winter–Spring 1995, page 18
the blue plate
on mother’s mantle . . .
so many tiny cracks
26:1, Winter–Spring 1995, page 18
another sip of wine
. . . and still she whispers
“later”
26:1, Winter–Spring 1995, page 18
Thornewood Poems
Thornewood Poems
a red berry on the trail—
looking up
to the chickadee’s song
a red toyon berry
at the trail’s edge—
the tinkle of a stream
first on the trail—
the pull of a spider strand
across my face
a switch-back
in the trail—
I glance at her face
a torn leaf
of pitcher sage—
passed from nose to nose
first glimpse—
white swan
in the forest pool
the weir’s edge—
water striders
keep turning back
trail’s end—
in the late afternoon
we sit beneath the redwoods
29:2, Summer 1998, page 12 [see the entire “Thornewood Poems” sequence, of which the preceding was an excerpt]
[I recall not submitting to Modern Haiku from about late 1994 to the summer of 1998, although I don’t remember why.]
just before dawn
summer rain
on the temple bell
25:3, Fall 1994, page 8
hot august afternoon—
an arm out of a car window
taps a cigarette
25:3, Fall 1994, page 80 [quoted in a review]
son’s suicide—
the basketball net’s shadow
on the garage door
25:2, Summer 1994, page 15
moon in the window—
the desk lamp’s brass pull cord
still swinging
25:2, Summer 1994, page 15
the click of the bolt—
the siamese cat
bends around the door
25:2, Summer 1994, page 15
a deer leaps—
the hunter’s
closed eye
25:2, Summer 1994, page 15
[also published in The Road: World Haiku Anthology, 2004]
the dull-faced man
lights a cigarette
in the rain
25:2, Summer 1994, page 15
summer fog—
ochre lichen
on the stone lantern
25:2, Summer 1994, page 15
a withered apple
caught in an old spine rake
. . . blossoms fall
25:2, Summer 1994, page 15
[also published in Haïku sans frontières: une anthologie mondiale, 1998]
the river flowing stronger
first catkins
on the willow
25:1, Winter–Spring 1994, page 27
low tundra sun
bleached antlers
cast a long shadow
25:1, Winter–Spring 1994, page 27
slow along the knife edge the chef’s pinkie
25:1, Winter–Spring 1994, page 27
Silhouettes
Silhouettes
The tense wind buffets the valley, scrapes between the cliffs at the narrow end, rattles the dry grass between granite boulders around me. Alone, I step along the trail, water bottle thumping against my hip. The coolness of a passing cloud brings a mottled snowshoe hare darting out across the trail. In the sun’s heat that grows against my back again, I bend to inspect the soil.
red dust still setting . . .
my finger blurs
the hare’s faint track
I raise my head at the trill of a junco, and walk between yarrow and the occasional paintbrush toward the vague sound of a creek, tripping and curling through thinly spaced trees. The creek runs low but fills an eddy, where a short brown twig swirls and turns before slipping through small stones. Wedged between a rock and the rough bark of a weathered ponderosa just beyond the bubbling stream, the sagging carcass of a deer lies where it fell. Its yellowed rack twisted awkwardly, the mule deer’s tail is too decayed to catch the dry wind. I reach out and then stop myself from touching the tail’s black tip. A fly buzzes from under the dirt-crusted fur. In a sudden hot gust, I step around to the head of the deer. Hollow bird-pecked eye sockets stare into the still dust at the trunk of the tree.
midsummer sun—
in the mule deer’s taut hide
a bullet hole
I draw a sharp breath. The smell makes me stiffen and step back, pulling my hands from my pockets. I leap back across the creek and tread the white grasses back to the trail. I quicken my stride upward toward the distant pass. Desert plume yellows the trail edge. In the morning I drive for home. But for now I will follow the tracks of the hare.
fading sunset . . .
the silhouette
of the snowshoe hare
25:1, Winter–Spring 1994, page 47 [see “Silhouettes”]
making a wish
on a falling star
no—a satellite
25:1, Winter Spring 1994, page 104 [quoted in a review]
mountain road—
the smell of burnt asbestos
from the big-rig
24:2, Summer 1993, page 28
rippling moon . . .
this old tin can
will take no more rain
24:2, Summer 1993, page 28
our rhythmic breathing
a bee slips deeper
into fuchsia
24:3, Fall 1993, page 12
[also published in Erotic Haiku, 2004]
[also published in Erotic Haiku: Of Skin on Skin, 2017]
gunshot recordings
echo over the vineyard . . .
a grackle’s stained beak
24:3, Fall 1993, page 12
[also published in Timepieces: Haiku Week-at-a-Glance 1995, 1995]
mountain dawn—
the warmth she left
in the outhouse seat
24:3, Fall 1993, page 12
spring thaw . . .
out of the snowdrift
the marble sundial
24:1, Winter–Spring 1993, page 78
low summer sun—
the shadow of an earring
on your cheek
25:1, Winter–Spring 1994, page 112 [quoted in a review]
[also published in Cor van den Heuvel’s The Haiku Anthology, 1999]
[also published in Fire in the Treetops, the Haiku North America 25th anniversary anthology, 2015]
morning bird song—
my paddle slips
into its reflection
24:1, Winter–Spring 1993, page 78
[also published in Cor van den Heuvel’s The Haiku Anthology, 1999]
you squeeze my hand . . .
how still the sky
after fireworks
23:3, Fall 1992, page 54
open water—
persimmon buds
drifting into stars
23:3, Fall 1992, page 54
too rusted to ring
the mission’s old bell
wrapped in morning-glory
23:2, Summer 1992, page 83
after hopscotch—
“hey, let’s go home
and watch the war”
23:2, Summer 1992, page 97 [quoted in a review]
California drought—
another sprinkler
waters the sidewalk
23:1, Winter–Spring 1992, page 53
a broken bamboo cane—
ripe tomatoes
grow along the ground
23:1, Winter–Spring 1992, page 53
barred window . . .
a torn rorschach
blows against the fence
23:1, Winter–Spring 1992, page 53
grey spring day—
the mating koi
flip the lily pad back over
22:3, Fall 1991, page 40
logger road—
the sun slants
through wood dust
22:3, Fall 1991, page 40
the night of the quake
learning
my neighbour’s name
22:2, Summer 1991, page 72 [quoted in a review; see “Tremors”]
aftershock
pausing
then finishing the argument
22:2, Summer 1991, page 72 [quoted in a review; see “Tremors”]
empty silo—
spring wind pops the metal
in and out
22:2, Summer 1991, page 82
[also published in Midwest Haiku Anthology, 1992]
[also published in Open Window, 2000]
[also published in Global Haiku: Twenty-five Poets Worldwide, 2000]
[also published in Haiku: Poetry Ancient & Modern, 2002]
[also published in Raku Teapot Haiku, 2003]
broken locket . . .
she laughs with me
with sad eyes
22:2, Summer 1991, page 82
spawning ground—
the ripple in the creek
becomes a fin
22:2, Summer 1991, page 82
wet beach sand—
a sandpiper’s song
of footprints
22:2, Summer 1991, page 82
[also published in Open Window, 2000]
[also published in Raku Teapot Haiku, 2003]
writing
to a gay friend
not using a love stamp
22:1, Winter–Spring 1991, page 49
my face dripping . . .
the floppy-foot clown’s
plastic flower
22:1, Winter–Spring 1991),49
[also published in Fig Newtons: Senryu to Go, 1993]
[also published in Cor van den Heuvel’s The Haiku Anthology, 1999]
in and out
of wind chimes—
freeway sound
22:1, Winter–Spring 1991, page 49
first cold night
smell of hot dust
from the vent
22:1, Winter–Spring 1991, page 49
[also published in Haïku sans frontières: une anthologie mondiale, 1998]
pouring a mug of tea
her reflection
in the kettle
22:1, Winter–Spring 1991, page 96 [quoted in a review; see “Two Autumns”]
first flakes . . .
the snow leopard
pacing
22:1, Winter–Spring 1991, page 96 [quoted in a review; see “Two Autumns”]
The Haijin’s Tweed Coat
The Haijin’s Tweed Coat
temple bell
the haijin’s tweed coat
sprinkled with pine needles
morning zazen
woodnotes and wind chimes
greet his twitching ears
plum blossoms ripple
a mayfly moves
from the plover’s shadow
not quite afternoon
a passing dragonfly
catches his eyes
an empty sandal
holds a whirring cicada . . .
headlines folded over
dipping his brush
into the inkstone he writes
a modern haiku
summer moon . . .
eating brussels sprouts
by the bonsai
beyond the red pagoda
a frogpond mirrors
the persimmon tree
21:3, Autumn 1990, page 69
[also published in The Haijin’s Tweed Coat, 1990, 2000]
Neighbours
Neighbours
deepening twilight
the burning cross
finally tumbles
sound of breaking glass
into the mist
white hoods
21:3, Autumn 1990, page 103 [see “Neighbours”]
tarnished silver
the only guest
eats in silence
21:3, Autumn 1990, page 104
from their campfire
across the universe . . .
beatle songs
21:3, Autumn 1990, page 104
golden gate park
teen with a boom box—
mime covers his ears
21:3, Autumn 1990, page 104
passing cloud
darkening
his cell
21:3, Autumn 1990, page 104
rusted wheelbarrow
ripples
from a fallen leaf
21:3, Autumn 1990, page 104
funhouse mirror
her autistic son
smiles
21:3, Autumn 1990, page 104
stone idol
the slow turning
of the tide
21:2, Summer 1990, page 13
[also published in the San Francisco Haiku Anthology, 1992]
at the well
wishing
for a coin
21:2, Summer 1990, page 13
under the stone
stone shadow
21:2, Summer 1990, page 13
under the umbrella
stormy face
21:2, Summer 1990, page 13
my window opens
a hundred frogs
sing to the moon
19:3, Autumn 1988, page 13: see “Open Window”]
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