Embedded Files
The following are all my poems published in Wales Haiku Journal since it began in 2018, with the most recent poems shown first. See also “12 neon buddhas” and my essay contributions listed on their Features page. My gratitude to the editors. +
Summer 2026
report cards
stuffed in their envelopes . . .
summer heat
rocking it gently
in my arms
broken guitar
Bookends
Bookends
by Michael Dylan Welch and Garry Gay
clay tablets
in the British Museum . . .
low ultraviolet light Michael
tales of hidden treasure
in the Dead Sea Scrolls Garry
turning of a page . . .
the Book of Kells
at Trinity College Michael
waiting in line
to view
a Gutenberg Bible Garry
City Lights
selling paperbacks Michael
at the beach
reading a novel
on my Kindle Garry
Gratitude
Gratitude
The Internet is awash with memes on how astoundingly immense the universe is, and how astoundingly unlikely it is for any planet to exist that sustains life, let alone advanced life that can pay taxes and eat fugu. Yet here we are. We’ve won a lottery beyond imagination, but that’s not the half of it, or even one-quintillionth of it, to the power of a million quintillions. What’s more, how likely is it that any of us are even born, given the 300 million sperm cells swimming up the fallopian tube at the one right moment when a single egg receives a single sperm cell and gives birth to the single one of us? To one you. To one me. Each of us is immensely fortunate to be alive, and immensely fortunate that our planet even exists for us to be alive in. This incomprehensible comprehension overwhelms me with gratitude.
a soap bubble popping
on fresh-cut grass
another in the breeze
Spring 2026
morning fog—
the clay in my hands
begins to form
frost on the ferns—
our brisk walk
in her hometown woods
high water line
marked on city hall
(in “Aftermath” rengay)
My “morning fog” haiku (from Wales Haiku Journal, Spring 2026) featured on Ben Gaa’s “Haiku Talk” channel on YouTube (May 2026).
Touchstone Award Nomination, January 2026
still unmade
on the sick child’s lawn
the snowman
Autumn 2025
snow falling—
the scarecrow’s mouth
doesn’t open
Spring 2025
steady drizzle—
a leaf back and forth
across the wheelbarrow
first kiss—
the two boys
giggling
fine rain—
the edge of the welcome mat
beginning to curl
rumours of snow—
Amazon recommends
my own book to me
Winter 2025
my daughter’s handful
of frozen dirt—
roses on the casket
still unmade
on the sick child’s lawn
the snowman
Summer 2024
her chemo
caught in pictures
the fire’s embers
Spring 2024
pebbles crackling
on granny’s driveway . . .
snow in the air
shall I compare thee
to a summer’s day?
the last firefly
Autumn 2023
heron rookery—
on our silent walk
you reach for my hand
Summer 2023
September sun—
the ref ties
the goalie’s shoe
Spring 2023
power failure—
my kids don't know
how to brush their teeth
Spring 2022
passing water skier . . .
the white egret
lifts with the wave
Summer 2022
the eyrie above me
sways in the wind—
forest fire moon
jiggering chrysalis—
sunlight, now
to the base of the bush
Spring 2022
passing water skier . . .
the white egret
lifts with the wave
Autumn 2021
swirling snow—
the sign says “sorry”
on the soup kitchen door
Summer 2021
midnight temblor—
the tiny lampchain
ticks against the lamp
Spring 2021
a day with rain—
coffeeshop cobblestones
thicker with moss
Summer 2020
finding them by touch
under the paisley couch . . .
newborn kittens
the scent of cedar
on a rusting chisel—
waning moon
Spring 2018
in the breeze
of an ambulance
a nodding iris
from here to the mountain wildflowers
the shadow in a honeycomb where the bee backed out
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