30 June 2017

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

29 June 2017

27 June 2017

26 June 2017

25 June 2017

24 June 2017

22 June 2017

Haiku 2017/173

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

21 June 2017

Haiku 2017/172

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

20 June 2017

19 June 2017

18 June 2017

17 June 2017

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

16 June 2017

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

07 June 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. . . .)

06 June 2017

Haiku 2017/157

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

04 June 2017

Haiku 2017/155

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

03 June 2017

Haiku 2017/154

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

01 June 2017