winter solstice
i chip the darkness
off my toast
Shiki International Kukai (Winter)
First Place
snowbound
a narrow road
inward
A Hundred Gourds 3:2 (March 2014)
forgiveness–
mending a broken vase
with gold
The Heron’s Nest (December 2019)
three days into September
frost settles in valley
a pumpkin sighs
in the greenhouse
sunflower heads hung to dry
whispers of winter
winter looms
as covid numbers rise
I breathe for millions
undocumented
harvesting pecans
wildflowers
ghost town cemetery
only the wind
comes and goes
gravel
where grass once grew
remembering rain
on the steep trail
we catch our breath
ancient cliff dwellings
Modern Haiku 48.3
more than two sides to it border crossing
Modern Haiku 46.1
cactus wrens
nest in the cholla
softening the argument
Modern Haiku 46.3
Joan Prefontaine
ARTICHOKE
O heart weighed down by so many wings
(from The World As Is: New & Selected Poems, 1972-2015)
*
three days, two spring snows:
jays and crows put pride aside
at the bird feeder
(from Haiku Journal 61)
*
heron on stick legs,
spread wings edged by sunset—
long day, many fish
(from Lifting the Sky: Southwestern Haiku and Haiga)
Things are closing down,
but not the first plum blossoms,
spring comes, regardless…
Cricket noise last night,
now in the grass, no sound
for all, winter comes.
That pesky full moon,
waking me at three AM
to write haiku.
heedless talk of war
he carries a spider
out to the garden
Modern Haiku Volume 49.3, Autumn 2018
view of the sacred mountain
with the white man’s name
slot canyon
Modern Haiku Volume 51.3, Autumn 2020
dove feathers
the shadow
of a hawk
Creatrix Haiku #42, September 2018
November bluster—
the epitome of
a sore loser
to be with my kids
and grandkids next year–
all I want for Christmas
grocery giveaway…
thousands of vehicles snake
through a parking lot
after hearing about Julia Chen, a haiku
cut more than eyes when
she cut epicanthic folds
ancestors bleeding
(Rock Paper Scissors, Swimming With Elephants 2018)
morning moon hangs faint
in a periwinkle sky
yesterday lingers
(unpublished)
The Least of These
Jesus cries himself
to sleep on the floor of a
Walmart in Brownsville
(Fixed And Free Poetry Anthology 2018)
After a nightmare—
hearing white-winged doves
foreshadow sunrise
***
a walnut plank
through the table saw
scent of mom’s kitchen
***
spider web
the remains of last night’s
love affair
Miriam's Well: Poetry, Land Art, and Beyond 