W Miscellany

The following miscellaneous “Haiku from Index Cards” all start with the letter W.

waiting in line

to ring the new year bell—

breath fogs the air

             (written 2000, published 2015; see “The Mended Shōji” sequence)

waiting waiting the train with no caboose

             (written 1995, published 1998; see “From Last Train Home”)

waning spring—

my love letter

just eraser rubbings

             (written 2015, published 2022)

waning summer—

the pilcrows shown

in my Word file

             (written 2021, published 2022)

wedding reception—

the weight of her bottle

on the lip of my cup

             (written 2001, published 2006; see “From Montage”)

wedding table

a disposable camera

by the couple’s name

             (written 2002, published 2017)

weekday sun—

the park drinking fountain

runs hot for a moment

             (written 2013, published 2021)

west moon

dad’s unfinished sketch

of the compass rose

             (written 2014, published 2020; see “Four Directions” sequence)

we walk the boardwalk hand in hand

                sharing ice cream

        headaches

             (written 2002, published 2004; see “Five Food Haiku” and “Akita International Haiku Network,” with Japanese translation)

whale bones . . .

the hollow sound

of blowing sand

             (written 1990, published 1992)

what can happen now?

in the forest

a redwood has fallen

             (written 1993, published 2008; written at Heritage Grove, near La Honda, California; see also “Parodies, Homages, Allusions”; this poem parodies “what can happen now / we have seen the shadbush bloom / on the river bluffs?” by Paul O. Williams)

what’s left

of a sandcastle . . .

autumn evening

             (written 2017, published 2017)

when she’s gone,

I open the bedside drawer

and stare at her gun

             (written 1995, published 1998; and yes, there’s a story behind this poem)

when the leaf falls

a golden carp

disappears into darkness

             (written 1991, published 1993; see “Typos Happen!”)

where shall we go?

the wind

has taken the map

             (written 1992, published 1996)

whistling wind—

a small snowdrift

by the still rabbit

             (written 1993, published 2015)

wildfire haze—

flag up

on the rural mailbox

             (written 2022, published 2023)

wild snow

riming the chairlift . . .

the smell of snow

             (written 1992, published 2020)

wild violets-

my crossword

still unstarted

             (written 2019, published 2019)

willows by the creek—

I wonder why we’re talking

about profit margins

             (written 2014, published 2024)

windfall apples

bring the deer from the woods—

Seabeck sunset

             (written 2022, published 2024)

wind from a passing semi waving through the tulips

             (written 2013, published 2023, with a Romanian translation)

wind from the train

   still rippling

in winter wheat

             (written 1992, published 1995)

window fog

a drop of milk

on her wrist

             (written 1990, published 1993)

Windows update . . .

a keyboard shortcut

no longer works

             (written 2023, published 2024; see “Changes” solo rengay)

windswept walk

   an orange leaf

   turns over

             (written 1990, published 1992; see “Windswept Walk” renku)

windy beach—

my first sand dollar

and then a hundred

             (written 1993, published 2019; written at Ocean Beach, San Francisco, after seeing my very first sand dollar, and then a hundred)

windy night—

a moonlit snowdrift

blocks the outhouse door

             (written 1992, published 1994)

wishing well—

my wish to give you

a hundred pennies

             (written 2012, published 2012; title poem of my trifold, “A Hundred Pennies”)

wisteria arbor—

sunglasses swinging

in my free hand

             (written 2000, published 2004)

with every swing of the hammock

       the same bright star

comes into view

             (written 1994, published 1998)

without a sound . . .

a petal starts

over the waterfall

             (written 1995, published 2009)

without his balloons

the balloonman

still walks lightly

             (written 1990, published 1991)

world series on TV:

                             “we’re having

                                                an earth—”

             (date written unrecorded, but almost certainly in the fall of 1989, published 1990; see “Tremors”)

writing

to a gay friend . . .

not using a love stamp

             (written 1990, published 1991; when I shared this poem with Marlene Mountain, she responded with “letter to a gay friend a love stamp,” and I submitted both poems to Modern Haiku where they were published together)