Memorial Haiku

long winter—

the phone calls

that no longer come

For Deborah P Kolodji

(died 21 July 2024)

September’s first chill—

the bees seem to know

their keeper is gone

For Bob Redmond

(died 12 September 2023, at age 57)

summer sunlight

brightens the playground

next to the graveyard . . .

can I ever do as much

with my five lines down?

For Sanford Goldstein

(died 5 May 2023, at age 97)

hotel reception—

we lean in to hear

his signature haiku

For Bill Kenney

(died, 26 September 2022; poem written 17 October 2015 at Haiku North America in Albany, New York; I forget which poem he read) 

tulips rising—

the last of the firewood

almost out

For Carol Purington

(died 8 December 2020)       +

trees still hung with moss

she moves into

the sound’s silence

For Winona Baker

(died 23 October 2020)       +

a meadowlark’s call

amid a flurry of leaves . . .

the woodpath turns

          the silence between us

a quail finds its way

     through the underbrush

For vincent tripi

(died 17 August 2020; first poem originally written for vince in 1991 when he stopped coediting Woodnotes with me, the second in July of 1999 when he moved away from San Francisco)

last of the sunset . . .

fewer scratches

in the chicken yard

For Marian Olson

(died 17 August 2018)

where has he gone . . .

his cat’s tail

forms a question mark

For Carlos Colón       +

(died 30 October 2016)

news of her death . . .

this year’s falling leaves

a little more lonely

For Jane Reichhold

(died 28 July 2016)

daffodils in bloom—

the mint in my mouth

still not done

For Gary Barnes (Soji)       +       +

(died 12 March 2016)

Eric Amann’s name

sinking deeper and deeper

into the red leaves

For Eric Amann       +

(died 12 March 2016)

total eclipse—

our shadows curve

and then disappear

For Kat Creighton       +

(died 15 January 2014)

spring woods . . .

a distant voice

falls silent

For Hortensia Anderson

(died 21 May 2012)

autumn haiku meeting—

all of us smile at the poem she says

isn’t any good

For Jay Gelzer     +

(died 29 December 2012)

rain again . . .

      the moon brightens

the cloud’s other side

For Helen Russell     +

(died 10 January 2011, age 101)

day lilies—

her last letter

still unopened

taken again

by the slant of her lines

by the slant of rain

summer night—

I close Peggy’s book

to hear the rain

For Peggy Willis Lyles     +

(died 3 September 2010)

gone from the woods

the bird I knew

by sight and song

For Paul O. Williams     +     +

(died 2 June 2009)

a change of season—

I turn again

to one of Bill’s books

For William J. Higginson     +     +

(died 11 October 2008)

spring’s deepening green—

beside the silent heron

our long shadows touch

For Robert Major     +

(died 18 May 2008)

winter sky—

her palette still

with all the colours

blue September sky—

the wordless things

we want to know

For Francine Porad     +

(died 27 September 2006)

after the brushstroke,

his head stays tilted

to a sun-dappled sumi-e

For Kaji Aso

(died 11 March 2006)

after the service,

carrying home

his grandmother’s brogue

mime

jumping

frog

fog . . .

just the tree

at the bus stop

For Jerry Kilbride

(died 3 November 2005)

the beach is wide—

to honour his passing

I write a line of his poetry

in the sand

close to the waves

For Robert Creeley

(died 30 March 2005)

her last breath—

the strings vibrating

on her dusty harp

For Elizabeth Searle Lamb

(died 15 February 2005)

Iraqi sunset—

a sand dune begins to build

around his bootprint

For Navy Lt. Kylan Jones-Huffman     +

(died 21 August 2003, in Iraq)

for her this spring

the greengoing woods

still greening

nightflowers

the smell of cigarettes

still in her book

For anne mckay

(died 4 March 2003)

Asilomar dunes—

      she rests her hand

against the tree she planted

For Kiyoko Tokutomi     +

(died 25 December 2002)

a wrenching in my chest—

the white peony

pulled from the garden

For Keiko Imaoka     +

(died April 2002)

Ish River country—

the brightest flower

closest to the ground

For Robert Sund

(died 29 September 2001)

words do not come

for you

on your passing

till the first warm day

the blossoming plum

April comes

and now you are gone,

you, who told your guardian angel

each year on your birthday,

not yet

For Pat Shelley

(died 28 December 1996)

scattered ashes . . .

how still each reed

and its shadow

For John Wills

(died 24 September 1993)

hermit crab—

      out of its shell

      out of itself

For Nick Virgilio

(died 3 January 1989)