September 02, 2018


47 years old, my buddy gets his first tattoo.  Artistically, its impressive.  It is well detailed, and the colours are strong and balanced.  Even at a distance, where some tats look like bruises, his continues to look like art.  

Still, I wonder how long he'll enjoy it.  Is this a forever piece, or something he'll regret?  Will he, at 57, continue to feel like he does now?   And how has he evolved from his 37 year old, ink-free self?  Attitudes, outlooks, and tastes are not static.  Does he really want something that won't change?

Or maybe he wants something that won't change?

his back to it
autumn wind

Contemporary Haibun Online Jan 2018

August 30, 2018

under a hood
with buds in my ears
I slip through
a crowd of other
people’s shadows

Atlas Poetica 32

August 29, 2018

after the bomb
a clock
with no hands

Modern Haiku 49.2

August 28, 2018

aside the umbrella -
summer lust

Prune Juice July 2018

August 27, 2018

Open Court

Anytime, Lebron.  One-on-one, my driveway.  You don't stand a chance.  I have the ultimate home court advantage.  I know every bump of the misshapen cement.  How the ball bounces down the slope.  The feel of the cool wind on my hands, the way to shoot when it gusts.  There's no softwood floor, no heated gym, no trainer to wrap your tender knees.  No pampering an NBA sissy.

Just you and me.


3 point shot
the long arc of
my dreams

Contemporary Haibun Online Jul 2017

August 26, 2018


The wind carries across the lake, biting my cheeks like cold teeth.  I shield myself and look over the water.  The surface is rough.  Waves rear their white capped heads but are yanked down again.  I'm reminded of the ghosts at the River Lethe:  pulled to the water, forced to drink.

Way out on the lake is a man in a rowboat.  At a distance, he looks pale.  He could be struggling, or enjoying the ride.  He's like an explorer in search of new lands, except in forgetting his proximity to shore.

grandpa can't find
the end of his tale
winter fog

Akitsu Quarterly Winter 2017 

August 25, 2018

The Panhandler

He's not very old.  Maybe 17.  Too young to vote, drink, own a gun, go to war.  But old enough to have been tossed aside, thrown into the world to manage on his own.  So far, he hasn't done a good job of it.

I've only got a $50 which I think is too much money.  I decide I'll give him a few dollars after I finish in the store.  But when I return, he's already gone: whisked away by impulse, the wind, or the police.

morning shade
the child who's chosen

cattails Fall 2017

August 24, 2018

hyacinth buds ...
a hunger deeper
than lust

Leonard Cohen Haiku tribute

August 23, 2018

cross-country skis
slide through powdered snow -
the path
I might have taken
in a parallel life

Presence 61

August 14, 2018

the homeless
between buildings
night fog

Wales Haiku Journal, Spring 2018

August 12, 2018

midnight jazz ...
a crow caws
out of time

Presence 61

May 06, 2018

open grave ...
examining the depth
of my shadow

Otata Nov 2017

May 05, 2018

stop light
a beggar feeds
on traffic

tinywords 16.2

May 04, 2018

curling up
before the fire ...
autumn leafs

Bamboo Hut, Spring 2018

May 03, 2018

late March
snow falls through
the hoop

The Heron’s Nest, Sept 2017

May 02, 2018

winter wind ...
a pallbearer tightens
his grip

hedgerow winter 2017

May 01, 2018

more bruise
than banana
autumn deepens

Wild Plum Fall 2017

April 29, 2018

bird seed
he scatters a handful
of change

Modern Haiku 49.1

April 28, 2018

the long arc
of a fly ball ...
prairie sky

Acorn 39

April 26, 2018

one last spin
of the merry-go-round ...
summer's end

hedgerow autumn 2017