Memorial Haiku
The following are selected memorial haiku (and the occasional tanka) I’ve written for poets who have died, arranged in reverse chronological order (most recent poem first). Two of these poems (for Kaji Aso and the first poem for anne mckay) were also Per Diem featured poems on the Haiku Foundation website in May 2014. Please also see the “Memorial Haibun” section of the Haibun page for longer tributes to these and other haiku poets.
“The highest tribute to the dead is not grief but gratitude.” —Thornton Wilder
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)
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 July 2016)
daffodils in bloom—
the mint in my mouth
still not done
(died 12 March 2016)
Eric Amann’s name
sinking deeper and deeper
into the red leaves
For Eric Amann +
(died 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
(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
For Francine Porad +
(died 27 September 2006)
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
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)