Haiku 2017/181

pressing against time
as the dull clouds pass over
sing an angry song

Friday photo 2017/26

lectern at Trinity Church, Boston, June 2017

As is often the case, the lectern takes the form of the eagle associated with St John, traditional author of the fourth gospel and the Apocalypse

Haiku 2017/180

seagulls start circling
waiting for our leftovers
they grow impatient

Haiku 2017/179

a smear of color
a shadow becomes a cat
a blur flies away

Haiku 2017/178

a far silver stretch:
and there we have the ocean,
as far as I know

Haiku 2017/177

relentless sunshine:
is it tedious for trees
as for gloomy men

Haiku 2017/176

a pretty pink haze
poisonous oleanders
hedging the highways

Haiku 2017/175

The leaves are falling.
They are not a metaphor,
but actual leaves.

Haiku 2017/174

playing her cello
she sits at the train station
in and above us

Friday photo 2017/25

Boston drain, June 2017

Haiku 2017/173

imagined birdsong
filled the space between the clouds
and the dull office

Haiku 2017/172

lots of wine for sale
but who will sell me moonlight
and a spring evening

Haiku 2017/171

hiding from the heat
even industrious ants
stick to their dark holes

Haiku 2017/170

sudden silver flash:
light glancing off the water?
a fish darting by?

Haiku 2017/169

heliotropic
and burnt by what it bends to –
breeze, caress this bud

Haiku 2017/168

it's summer outside
but leaves continue to fall
will they be swept up

Haiku 2017/159-167

2017/167 (16 June 2017)
wilting in the sun
cut flowers in the market
the bees buzz away

*******

2017/166 (15 June 2017)
the rock continues
washed by unending waters
pebbles roll away

*******

2017/165 (14 June 2017)
winds direct the clouds
winds pull leaves from off the trees
they swirl around me

*******

2017/164 (13 June 2017)
within this building
an unexpected fountain
drowning the city

*******

2017/163 (12 June 2017)
New England gravestones
knocked sideways by wind and rain
O the fresh green grass

*******

2017/162 (11 June 2017)
in my old station
a frail voice sings this warning:
que sera, sera

*******

2017/161 (10 June 2017)
these drooping blossoms
lovely in their long pale deaths
there is only now

*******

2017/160 (9 June 2017)
New things shock old eyes.
New things turn into old things.
This is what happens.

*******

2017/159 (8 June 2017)
climbing up the hills
serried ranks of boxy homes
as the trees retreat

The chap in the macintosh is thirteen

     Now who is that lankylooking galoot over there in the macintosh? Now who is he I'd like to know? Now, I'd give a trifle to know who he is. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. A fellow could live on his lonesome all his life. Yes, he could. Still he'd have to get someone to sod him after he died though he could dig his own grave. We all do. Only man buries. No ants too. First thing strikes anybody. Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe was true to life. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a Thursday if you come to look at it.

                           O poor Robinson Crusoe,
                           How could you possibly do so?

     Poor Dignam! His last lie on the earth in his box. When you think of them all it does seem a waste of wood. All gnawed through. They could invent a handsome bier with a kind of panel sliding let it down that way. Ay but they might object to be buried out of another fellow's. They're so particular. Lay me in my native earth. Bit of clay from the holy land. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the one coffin. I see what it means. I see. To protect him as long as possible even in the earth. The Irishman's house is his coffin. Embalming in catacombs, mummies, the same idea.

     Mr. Bloom stood far back, his hat in his hand, counting the bared heads. Twelve. I'm thirteen. No. The chap in the macintosh is thirteen. Death's number. Where the deuce did he pop out of? He wasn't in the chapel, that I'll swear. Silly superstition that about thirteen.

And once again a very happy Bloomsday to all my mountain flowers.

Friday photo 2017/24

window at St Mark's Lutheran, San Francisco, May 2017

Friday photo 2017/23

at St Mark's Lutheran, San Francisco, May 2017

Haiku 2017/158

sun-like little blooms
swaying on their slender stalks
rain clouds overhead

(I may or may not have computer access for the next week or so. . . .)

Haiku 2017/157

another wind blew
a different set of dry leaves
through this same valley

Haiku 2017/156

a scrap of paper
fluttering illegibly
a white butterfly

Haiku 2017/155

the sky turns sapphire
trees dance with the evening breeze
the light lingers late

Haiku 2017/154

The night wind rises.
Birds huddle on their branches.
There is no moonlight.

Haiku 2017/153

silver shades go by
flickering past hungry eyes
dreaming in the dark

Friday photo 2017/22

clementine peels on a ledge, San Francisco May 2017

Haiku 2017/152

sitting in shadow
two young men under a tree
staring at their phones