An Alphabet of Haiku

The following is a miscellaneous selection of haiku and senryu, all previously published (see credit list at the end). These fifty-six poems, assembled in November 2014, are favourites from among recently published or republished poems, simply arranged alphabetically. And yes, I’m missing poems that start with the letters X and Z, but I think I can handle it.

a carpenter ant

struggling in its frass—

dappled sunlight

                                a favourite website

                                rejects my password . . .

                                snow on distant peaks

                                                                after the puppet show the puppets

                                                                                                an empty boat

                                                                                                tied to the dock—

                                                                                                divorce pending

                                                                                                                                antique shop—

                                                                                                                                my child asks

                                                                                                                                about the two Germanies

autumn dusk—

tonight you don’t ask

what I’m reading

                                before our first date

                                the rainbow

                                at the car wash

                                                                casino

                                                                       I lose

                                                                myself

                                                                                                cold rain—

                                                                                                the inning ends

                                                                                                with nobody on

                                                                                                                                cold tea—

                                                                                                                                the snow all settled

                                                                                                                                in the snow globe

dark calm—

the common drift

of firework smoke

                                December dawn—

                                the shape of the flower bed

                                under fresh snow

                                                                deepening depression

                                                                the telephone

                                                                stops ringing

                                                                                                desolate beach

                                                                                                     snow starts to cling

                                                                                                          to a little toy boat

                                                                                                                                distant car horn—

                                                                                                                                in the empty studio

                                                                                                                                the faceless portrait

double rainbow—

she starts her story

over again

                                eating more of the apple

                                than I usually do—

                                NPR pledge drive

                                                                elephant enclosure—

                                                                my wife asks me

                                                                if I’ve put on weight

                                                                                                fading light—

                                                                                                I pop a kelp bladder

                                                                                                for my absent son

                                                                                                                                free checking—

                                                                                                                                the pen chained

                                                                                                                                to the counter

funeral’s end

the meaning

of rain

                                growing heat—

                                cows in the lee

                                of the rotting barn

                                                                her first report card—

                                                                a row of plum trees

                                                                beginning to pink

                                                                                                home from the redwoods—

                                                                                                all my pictures

                                                                                                are vertical

                                                                                                                                in one car window

                                                                                                                                and out the other . . .

                                                                                                                                dandelion puff

job interview—

the snow shovel

lifted from its hook

                                kids’ lemonade stand—

                                for the crotchety neighbour

                                they double the price

                                                                late blossoms . . .

                                                                the aftershock

                                                                shakes them down

                                                                                                leaves in the fountain

                                                                                                                   a penny sinking

                                                                                                        side to side

                                                                                                                                loons scattering . . .

                                                                                                                                a floatplane touches down

                                                                                                                                into summer

most crowded

at the park visitor center

the nature exhibit

                                no, I tell myself

                                it’s not really

                                a grey hair

                                                                on the freebie table

                                                                at the diversity conference

                                                                salted nuts

                                                                                                on the merry-go-round

                                                                                                with my daughter

                                                                                                a few fallen leaves

                                                                                                                                prairie rain—

                                                                                                                                the windmill stirs

                                                                                                                                out of its sleep

                                                                quiet library . . .

                                                                a yawn in reference

                                                                spreads to nonfiction

rain dripping

from the red-and-white awning . . .

I catch your yawn

                                rapture

                                the neon buddha

                                has nothing to declare

                                                                reconciliation

                                                                you hand me a meadow

                                                                of wildflower

                                                                                                reunion—

                                                                                                last night’s rain

                                                                                                left in a leaf

                                                                                                                                 sand

                                                                                                                                    in

                                                                                                                                   my

                                                                                                                                 hand

                                                                                                                                   the

                                                                                                                                  end

                                                                                                                                    of

                                                                                                                                     a

                                                                                                                            mountain

short day—

the toe tag waves

as we turn away

                                spring cleaning—

                                dust in the shape

                                of unanswered mail

                                                                spring haze . . .

                                                                   the alpenglow

                                                                      going slow

                                                                                                spring sun—

                                                                                                a pallbearer stops

                                                                                                to tie his shoe

                                                                                                                                summer rain

                                                                                                                                      the mechanic pockets

                                                                                                                                the spare tire valve cap

the ferry shakes

into my spine—

the whale’s wake

                                tidepool anemones

                                now all closed . . .

                                a child’s wet fingers

                                                                tonight’s stars—

                                                                how long will it take

                                                                for my light to reach them?

                                                                                                unpaid bills—

                                                                                                Indian plum sprouts

                                                                                                from yellow to green

                                                                                                                                Valentine’s Day—

                                                                                                                                a letter today

                                                                                                                                for “Occupant”

wet beach stones

gathered in my palm—

a fading rainbow

                                white autumn—

                                the tide pool not a tide pool

                                till I step in it

                                                                winter chill—

                                                                the canal boat lowers

                                                                into the lock

                                                                                                winter funeral—

                                                                                                the weight

                                                                                                of their family Bible

                                                                                                                                year of the dragon—

                                                                                                                                the snow on her grave

                                                                                                                                a long way from melting

These poems previously appeared in the following journals, books, and anthologies: A Hundred Gourds (Australia; online), Air: 2012 British Haiku Society Members’ Anthology (London: British Haiku Society, 2012), Bones (online), Ёrshik (Russia; online), Fog and Brittle Pine: 2007 Membership Anthology (San Jose: Yuki Teikei Haiku Society, 2007), For a Moment (Pointe Claire, Quebec: King’s Road Press, 2009), Four and Twenty (online), Frogpond, From Leaf to Leaf (Bellevue, Washington: Haiku Northwest, 2011), Geese Landing: 2008 Haiku Canada Members’ Anthology (Ottawa: Haiku Canada, 2008), Geppo, Haiku Canada Review, Haiku Sans Frontières: Une Anthologie Mondiale (Orleans, Ontario: Les Éditions David, 1998), The Heron’s Nest (online), Horses’ Hooves: 2013 Haiku Canada Members’ Anthology (Ottawa: Haiku Canada, 2013), HSA Newsletter, The Language of Dragons (Yay Words; online), Lilliput Review, Mariposa, Mayfly, Modern Haiku, My Neighbor: 2009 Two Autumns Anthology (San Francisco: Two Autumns Press, 2009), No Longer Strangers (Bellevue, Washington: Haiku Northwest/Vandina Press, 2014), Northwest Literary Forum, Notes from the Gean (Scotland; online), Red Lights, Slipping Between Seasons: 2014 Haiku Canada Members’ Anthology (Ottawa: Haiku Canada, 2014), Solitary Plover, South by Southeast, The Blue Planet: Multilingual Haiku Anthology (Tokyo: Hokumeisha, 2011), This World: 2013 Haiku Society of America Members’ Anthology (New York: Haiku Society of America, 2013), Tidepools: Haiku On Gabriola (Gabriola, British Columbia: Pacific-Rim Publishers, 2011), Timepieces 1995 (Los Angeles: Haiku Headlines, 1994), Under the Basho (online), Upstate Dim Sum, and Windfall (Bellevue, Washington: Haiku Northwest, 2012). In addition, “autumn dusk” won second place in the 2010 Seabeck Haiku Getaway kukai; “cold rain” won second place in the 2004 Anita Weiss Haiku Contest; “double rainbow” won first place in the 2012 Seabeck Haiku Getaway kukai; “home from the redwoods” was the Editor’s Choice poem of the week for Four and Twenty (online); and “kids’ lemonade stand” won an honourable mention in the 2007 Tokutomi Haiku Contest.