Notes & Whatnot
Haibun, Haiga, and What Else is New
May, 1 2025
Three of my poems appear in the latest print issue of Scifaikuest and another materializes in Scifaikuest Online.
April 1, 2025
Cowboys and Indians
Back in the day, life was hard . . . and easy. Yes, we had to walk to school every day (which was, of course, uphill both ways), and we didn’t have the internet or video games to entertain us, but we sure did watch a lot of TV. My favorite shows were the Westerns, like Roy Rogers, The Lone Ranger, and Broken Arrow. Every Saturday morning, my brother and I would put on our cowboy hats and bandanas, strap on our cap guns, and climb onto our trusty spring-mounted hobby horses to ride off into the Wild West. Although we spent a lot of time in front of that little black-and-white TV set, we spent even more time running around the fields and woods surrounding our house, where our adventures continued in living color.chasing a herd of buffalo
across the open plain
a tear runs down my cheek
as my pony pulls up lame
Mother’s last dime
Contemporary Haibun Online, 21.1 April 2025
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March 21, 2025
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March, 1 2025
Failed Haiku #108
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February 25, 2025
Message on a Bottle
One of my haiku printed on the label of a bottle of Ito En Jasmine Green Tea.
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February 23, 2025
Myrtle the Microphone
In 1925, the engineers at the Western Electric Company invented the "ring and spring" electric microphone, ushering in the electrical age of recording by replacing the low-fidelity acoustic systems that had been in use during the early days of sound recording. This new technology would revolutionize both the recording and radio broadcast industries.
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| Ear Trumpet "Myrtle" Microphone |
Fast forward 75 years, our family band, The Homegrown String Band™, recorded our first CD in a modern digital recording studio. Then in 2012, my wife and I took a step back in time when we were invited by the National Parks Department to participate in a recording session that would take place at The Thomas Edison National Historic Park in West Orange, New Jersey.
The antique Edison recording system we would be using consisted of a horn with a diaphragm on the narrow end, a needle, and a rotating wax cylinder. The sound waves coming into the horn make the diaphragm vibrate, which in turn causes the needle to etch a pattern onto the spinning wax disc. The playback system works the same way in reverse. The rotating cylinder causes the needle to vibrate the diaphragm, which reverts the vibrations to audible sound waves. Most of the early recordings using systems like this were made by brass bands, blues shouters, opera singers, and other acts that had enough volume to get that needle vibrating strongly enough to make a good impression in the wax-coated cylinder.
The first band to record at our session was a brass band that played Sousa marches and the like. They positioned themselves about ten feet away from the sound-capturing horn and easily made several successful recordings. When it was our turn to record, we chose two songs originally recorded by early commercial country artists: "The Nine Pound Hammer,” originally recorded in 1927 by Al Hopkins and the Hillbillies; and "How Many Biscuits Can You Eat," recorded by Grand Ole Opry stars Dr. Humphrey Bate and His Possum Hunters. We soon discovered that the only way to make our stringed instruments create enough air movement to get that needle to vibrate sufficiently was to stand about a foot away from the horn. I actually had to stick my head into the horn when I sang.
In 2019, we purchased “Myrtle” from Ear Trumpet Labs in Portland, Oregon. The Myrtle is a large diaphragm condenser microphone modeled after the Western Electric spring and ring microphones of the late 1920s. Since then, we have used Myrtle for live shows, Zoom shows, and our live mono field recordings. The old-school single mic set-up gives us the look, feel, and sound of the music recorded during the golden age of country music between 1925 and 1931.
The antique Edison recording system we would be using consisted of a horn with a diaphragm on the narrow end, a needle, and a rotating wax cylinder. The sound waves coming into the horn make the diaphragm vibrate, which in turn causes the needle to etch a pattern onto the spinning wax disc. The playback system works the same way in reverse. The rotating cylinder causes the needle to vibrate the diaphragm, which reverts the vibrations to audible sound waves. Most of the early recordings using systems like this were made by brass bands, blues shouters, opera singers, and other acts that had enough volume to get that needle vibrating strongly enough to make a good impression in the wax-coated cylinder.
The first band to record at our session was a brass band that played Sousa marches and the like. They positioned themselves about ten feet away from the sound-capturing horn and easily made several successful recordings. When it was our turn to record, we chose two songs originally recorded by early commercial country artists: "The Nine Pound Hammer,” originally recorded in 1927 by Al Hopkins and the Hillbillies; and "How Many Biscuits Can You Eat," recorded by Grand Ole Opry stars Dr. Humphrey Bate and His Possum Hunters. We soon discovered that the only way to make our stringed instruments create enough air movement to get that needle to vibrate sufficiently was to stand about a foot away from the horn. I actually had to stick my head into the horn when I sang.
In 2019, we purchased “Myrtle” from Ear Trumpet Labs in Portland, Oregon. The Myrtle is a large diaphragm condenser microphone modeled after the Western Electric spring and ring microphones of the late 1920s. Since then, we have used Myrtle for live shows, Zoom shows, and our live mono field recordings. The old-school single mic set-up gives us the look, feel, and sound of the music recorded during the golden age of country music between 1925 and 1931.
wax cylinder
a brass band
etched in time
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February 10, 2025
Two Poems in the February 2025 issue of Scifaikuest! - Order a copy from Hiraeth Publishing
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December 31, 2024
Two of my poems are included in a new anthology edited by Dimitar Anakiev that focuses on the war in Ukraine.
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December, 13, 2024
Two of my poems were appear in Bird Whistle, the 2024 HSA Merit Award winner for best haiku anthology, edited by Stanford Forrester and published by bottle rockets press.
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November, 21, 2024
Pick up the latest issue of Scifaikuest from Hiraeth Publishing
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October 26, 2024
wildfire
twilight
all day
Semifinalist September 2024 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
New York Seikatsu Press October 2024
twilight
all day
Semifinalist September 2024 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
New York Seikatsu Press October 2024
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October 1, 2024
day moon
a cottontail disappears
into the hedgerow
a cottontail disappears
into the hedgerow
Semifinalist August 2024 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
New York Seikatsu Press September 2024
New York Seikatsu Press September 2024
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August 1, 2024
The Bloody Axe of Odin
Seeing the vaunted raven banner of Ubba hanging slack in the predawn air, those among the Viking horde who possess the gift of sight all agree that the day will not end well for the Great Army of the North.
With a wolfskin cloak and a sense of impending doom weighing heavy on his shoulders, the dux of the Frisians wades through the bloody battlefield, wielding his axe with an unnatural strength bestowed upon him by the Gods of Asgard. But alas, in the end, even the favor of Odin will not be enough to win the day. Overwhelmed by sheer numbers, with armor pierced by arrow and blade, the fearsome warrior stumbles to his knees before finally collapsing to the ground. Lying among the bodies of friend and foe alike, Ubba whispers a prayer of hope that he may be deemed worthy to be counted among the ranks of the Einherjar of Valhalla.
carrion crows
eye the flesh
of a fallen warrior
while a Valkryie
collects his soul
With a wolfskin cloak and a sense of impending doom weighing heavy on his shoulders, the dux of the Frisians wades through the bloody battlefield, wielding his axe with an unnatural strength bestowed upon him by the Gods of Asgard. But alas, in the end, even the favor of Odin will not be enough to win the day. Overwhelmed by sheer numbers, with armor pierced by arrow and blade, the fearsome warrior stumbles to his knees before finally collapsing to the ground. Lying among the bodies of friend and foe alike, Ubba whispers a prayer of hope that he may be deemed worthy to be counted among the ranks of the Einherjar of Valhalla.
carrion crows
eye the flesh
of a fallen warrior
while a Valkryie
collects his soul
Contemporary Haibun Online, August 2024
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Handyman Special
Shortly after moving into our circa 1929 fixer-upper converted beach house, I found myself lying flat on my back under the kitchen sink. It was about three o'clock in the morning, but I couldn't sleep knowing how much work I needed to get done. While struggling to loosen the rusty S-trap, I discovered a small door in the wall directly behind the drain pipe. I thought this was a bit strange. The door was upside down, which made perfect sense since I was lying flat on my back. What struck me as odd was that there was even a door under my kitchen sink at all.
spreading slowly
across the kitchen floor
a puddle . . . of moonlight
On one side of the door were two ancient-looking rusty iron hinges. On the other side, there was a simple sliding deadbolt. I tried, without success, to move the bolt, but it obviously had not been opened for quite a long time. Of course, there was only one thing I could do . . . spray that sucker with God's gift to the handyman; WD-40™! I gave the magic formula some time to do its work; finally, after a fair amount of pushing, pulling, hammering, and cussing, I pried the door open.
backlight—
my shadow
leads the way
What I found behind that little door was not what I expected. I thought I would find some long-forgotten access point to a plumbing or electrical junction, but what was revealed by my efforts was nothing of the sort. I didn't find any pipes or wires, not even a bit of insulation. The door opened into a brightly lit, art-deco-style train station adorned with intricately tiled arches, chandelier lighting, and leaded glass skylights. The door was barely big enough to stick my head through, but after a quick peek, I realized that I was, or at least my head was, in a New York City subway station. Lettering on the wall, a few yards to my right, spelled out: C-I-T-Y H-A-L-L. A few people were milling around, but the station was mostly deserted. Not too shocking. It was 3 am, after all. I may have been peeking into "The City That Never Sleeps," but I guess even insomniacs slow down a little bit in the wee hours of the morning.
chandeliers
casting tangled shadows
on the subway wall
Now my curiosity was really piqued! I dragged myself out from under the sink and ran downstairs to get my trusty Sawzall™. The reciprocating saw made quick work of the cabinet wall; before long, I had enlarged the door enough to get my shoulders through. After squeezing through the enlarged opening, I took a leisurely stroll along the platform. While admiring the craftsmanship that went into the City Hall subway station's design and construction, I noticed a forlorn-looking man standing a little too close to the edge of the platform. His head was hanging down while his arms dangled limply at his sides. In his left hand, he held a leather briefcase; in his other hand was a copy of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. The headline on the front page read: "WALL ST. IN PANIC AS STOCKS CRASH.” Just then, as the sound of a train came thundering towards the station, I realized that this sad-looking man was about to jump in front of the oncoming train. He had one foot hanging over the track when I grabbed him by the back of his collar and pulled him back onto the platform. As the train rumbled into the station, I led him over to a seat away from the track, where the poor fellow collapsed in a heap and began to weep and moan. He said he had lost everything. All he had left was a little cottage on Long Island. I tried to console him with the old cliche, "Well, at least you have your health." Definitely not a good idea; the keening, if anything, got even worse as his sad story echoed off the tiled subway walls. Finally, I said, "That little cottage out on the Island sure sounds like a great place to get a fresh start on a long and happy life.” This seemed to comfort him a bit.
lost
in the clouds
sunrise
Once convinced that he wasn’t going to do anything rash, I bid him adieu. As I was getting up to go, I glanced down at his briefcase and noticed that the leather case had an engraved nameplate; It read “Louis J. Lunsford Esq.” Which coincidentally, or not, happened to be the name of the elderly gentleman who had just recently sold us our new, old house.
straddling
the edge of the ocean
now and then
I made my way back to my kitchen via the hole under the sink. After cleaning up a bit, I dragged myself to bed. I slept late that morning. When I finally did get out of bed, I found a message on my answering machine. The disembodied voice on the tape machine informed me that, sadly, Mr. Lunsford had passed away during the night. Before drifting off to sleep that evening, he asked his nurse to convey his wish that I, and my family, should live a long and happy life in our little cottage by the sea. I took a moment to gather my thoughts, then grabbed a flashlight, and looked under the sink. The plumbing work was complete, and there was no sign whatsoever of a door that might lead to the NYC subway system.
Indian summer
catching some rays
in a jar of beach glass
Shortly after moving into our circa 1929 fixer-upper converted beach house, I found myself lying flat on my back under the kitchen sink. It was about three o'clock in the morning, but I couldn't sleep knowing how much work I needed to get done. While struggling to loosen the rusty S-trap, I discovered a small door in the wall directly behind the drain pipe. I thought this was a bit strange. The door was upside down, which made perfect sense since I was lying flat on my back. What struck me as odd was that there was even a door under my kitchen sink at all.
spreading slowly
across the kitchen floor
a puddle . . . of moonlight
On one side of the door were two ancient-looking rusty iron hinges. On the other side, there was a simple sliding deadbolt. I tried, without success, to move the bolt, but it obviously had not been opened for quite a long time. Of course, there was only one thing I could do . . . spray that sucker with God's gift to the handyman; WD-40™! I gave the magic formula some time to do its work; finally, after a fair amount of pushing, pulling, hammering, and cussing, I pried the door open.
backlight—
my shadow
leads the way
What I found behind that little door was not what I expected. I thought I would find some long-forgotten access point to a plumbing or electrical junction, but what was revealed by my efforts was nothing of the sort. I didn't find any pipes or wires, not even a bit of insulation. The door opened into a brightly lit, art-deco-style train station adorned with intricately tiled arches, chandelier lighting, and leaded glass skylights. The door was barely big enough to stick my head through, but after a quick peek, I realized that I was, or at least my head was, in a New York City subway station. Lettering on the wall, a few yards to my right, spelled out: C-I-T-Y H-A-L-L. A few people were milling around, but the station was mostly deserted. Not too shocking. It was 3 am, after all. I may have been peeking into "The City That Never Sleeps," but I guess even insomniacs slow down a little bit in the wee hours of the morning.
chandeliers
casting tangled shadows
on the subway wall
Now my curiosity was really piqued! I dragged myself out from under the sink and ran downstairs to get my trusty Sawzall™. The reciprocating saw made quick work of the cabinet wall; before long, I had enlarged the door enough to get my shoulders through. After squeezing through the enlarged opening, I took a leisurely stroll along the platform. While admiring the craftsmanship that went into the City Hall subway station's design and construction, I noticed a forlorn-looking man standing a little too close to the edge of the platform. His head was hanging down while his arms dangled limply at his sides. In his left hand, he held a leather briefcase; in his other hand was a copy of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. The headline on the front page read: "WALL ST. IN PANIC AS STOCKS CRASH.” Just then, as the sound of a train came thundering towards the station, I realized that this sad-looking man was about to jump in front of the oncoming train. He had one foot hanging over the track when I grabbed him by the back of his collar and pulled him back onto the platform. As the train rumbled into the station, I led him over to a seat away from the track, where the poor fellow collapsed in a heap and began to weep and moan. He said he had lost everything. All he had left was a little cottage on Long Island. I tried to console him with the old cliche, "Well, at least you have your health." Definitely not a good idea; the keening, if anything, got even worse as his sad story echoed off the tiled subway walls. Finally, I said, "That little cottage out on the Island sure sounds like a great place to get a fresh start on a long and happy life.” This seemed to comfort him a bit.
lost
in the clouds
sunrise
Once convinced that he wasn’t going to do anything rash, I bid him adieu. As I was getting up to go, I glanced down at his briefcase and noticed that the leather case had an engraved nameplate; It read “Louis J. Lunsford Esq.” Which coincidentally, or not, happened to be the name of the elderly gentleman who had just recently sold us our new, old house.
straddling
the edge of the ocean
now and then
I made my way back to my kitchen via the hole under the sink. After cleaning up a bit, I dragged myself to bed. I slept late that morning. When I finally did get out of bed, I found a message on my answering machine. The disembodied voice on the tape machine informed me that, sadly, Mr. Lunsford had passed away during the night. Before drifting off to sleep that evening, he asked his nurse to convey his wish that I, and my family, should live a long and happy life in our little cottage by the sea. I took a moment to gather my thoughts, then grabbed a flashlight, and looked under the sink. The plumbing work was complete, and there was no sign whatsoever of a door that might lead to the NYC subway system.
Indian summer
catching some rays
in a jar of beach glass
Scifaikuest Online August 2024
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July 1, 2024
rainy season
when the foothills
touch the sky
when the foothills
touch the sky
Semifinalist May 2024 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
New York Seikatsu Press June 2024
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May 9, 2024
Two of my poems appear in the latest issue of Scifaikuest.
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April 27, 2024
climate change
the geese
stay put
the geese
stay put
Semifinalist March 2024 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
New York Seikatsu Press April 2024
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April 16, 2024
Broke Down Palace
A bucket, placed under a hole in the roof, fills . . . with moonlight.
It seems like a dream when I try to recall those cold winter nights when it was my grandparents' turn to host the neighborhood dance party. The kids were tasked with rolling up the tattered rugs while the men carried the furniture out of the house and onto the lawn. By the time the moon rose over the treetops, the old house would be filled with dancers spinning and stomping to the sounds of a fretless banjo and an old-time fiddle. The musicians played through the night, breaking only long enough to sample the potluck supper and sip a little whiskey as we passed the hat and listened to Grandpa tell one of his tall tales.
It seems like a dream when I try to recall those cold winter nights when it was my grandparents' turn to host the neighborhood dance party. The kids were tasked with rolling up the tattered rugs while the men carried the furniture out of the house and onto the lawn. By the time the moon rose over the treetops, the old house would be filled with dancers spinning and stomping to the sounds of a fretless banjo and an old-time fiddle. The musicians played through the night, breaking only long enough to sample the potluck supper and sip a little whiskey as we passed the hat and listened to Grandpa tell one of his tall tales.
accompanied
by rattling windows
and the wind
whistling through the rafters
we dance 'til dawn
by rattling windows
and the wind
whistling through the rafters
we dance 'til dawn
Contemporary Haibun Online April 2024
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February 27. 2024
I have a haibun appearing in the latest issue of Scifaikuest. Pick up a copy at hiraethsffh.com.
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February 24, 2024
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November 1, 2023
Embracing the paradox of reality, as cherry blossoms and bamboo flute music float through the air, I can’t help but smile when instructed to exit the garden through the gift shop.
hungry koi
follow a silver coin
to the bottom
of the garden pool
follow a silver coin
to the bottom
of the garden pool
wishful thinking
Ribbons Vol.19.3- Fall 2023
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October 28, 2023
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August 2, 2023
Not Another Fish Story
Shortly after witnessing this incredible scene, I packed up my gear and headed home. My heartbeat was still racing when I walked in the door. My wife was puttering around the kitchen as I excitedly related my tale about being treated to an up-close view of the unbroken circle of life. When my story was done, she turned to me and said, “But did you catch any fish?”
searching
for the right word
summer kigo
Prune Juice #40, August 2023
Woodblock print by Koson Ohara
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June 30, 2023
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June 23, 2023
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June 5, 2023
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May 31, 2023
Cattails Spring/April 2023
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May 27, 2023
April 2023 Ito En Art of Haiku English Semi-Finalists
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May 3, 2023
I never received any notification, but I just found out that two of my haiku were selected in The Golden Triangle Haiku Contest this spring. The prompt for the contest was "Notes to Nature." Out of 3100 submissions 140 haiku were selected to be printed on signs placed around the Golden Triangle neighborhood of Washington D.C. during the cherry blossom season.
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April 22, 2023
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March 24, 2023
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February 21, 2023
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January 10, 2023
The Instant Karma of Autoignition
A few months ago, my neighbor exploded. Spontaneous combustion, they say. The fire marshal hypothesized that the event was most likely triggered by a static electrical charge, or perhaps a spark from the dog’s shock collar, coupled with the dog owner’s intake of copious amounts of alcohol.
If you ask me, a more likely explanation would be that his wife slipped some nitroglycerin into his whiskey. Or maybe she fed him a mixture of fertilizer and Limburger cheese. I hear you can find recipes for things like that on the internet.
the moon
howls back
If you ask me, a more likely explanation would be that his wife slipped some nitroglycerin into his whiskey. Or maybe she fed him a mixture of fertilizer and Limburger cheese. I hear you can find recipes for things like that on the internet.
the moon
howls back
#metoo
Anyway, the neighborhood is a lot quieter these days. Mom had to get a job, and sometimes I hear Junior talking to himself while he plays ball in the backyard. But all in all, the family seems to be doing pretty well. Truth be told, I don't think anyone really misses the pyrotechnically departed. Even the dog seems to be smiling more these days.
play by play
he passes the football
to himself
play by play
he passes the football
to himself
Contemporary Haibun Online, December 2022
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November 26, 2022
October 2022 English Semifinalists
Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
New York Seikatsu Press November 2022
New York Seikatsu Press November 2022
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November 5, 2022
Sticking to It
After having four wedding dates canceled due to COVID lockdowns, our daughter finally got married this summer. A couple of weeks after the big bash, I happened to catch a glimpse of a shooting star streaking across the northern sky. I took the opportunity to silently wish the newlyweds a long and happy life together.
The sight of that meteorite burning through the atmosphere also brought back some old memories. As I watched the star come tumbling down to Earth, I recalled a little girl saving up her money to buy a package of glow-in-the-dark stars. That little girl then carefully applied the stickers to her bedroom ceiling in the shapes of the various constellations she had learned to identify. Unfortunately, it wasn't long before the adhesive began to give way and, one by one the stars, and the tears, began to fall. Seeing how sad she was, I tried to console her by telling her to look at the bright side—some of your stars are still up there, and every time one falls, you get to make a wish . . . She used the rest of her money to buy a tube of glue.
The sight of that meteorite burning through the atmosphere also brought back some old memories. As I watched the star come tumbling down to Earth, I recalled a little girl saving up her money to buy a package of glow-in-the-dark stars. That little girl then carefully applied the stickers to her bedroom ceiling in the shapes of the various constellations she had learned to identify. Unfortunately, it wasn't long before the adhesive began to give way and, one by one the stars, and the tears, began to fall. Seeing how sad she was, I tried to console her by telling her to look at the bright side—some of your stars are still up there, and every time one falls, you get to make a wish . . . She used the rest of her money to buy a tube of glue.
between two stars
a cricket song
Failed Haiku # 83, November 2022
a cricket song
Failed Haiku # 83, November 2022
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October 5, 2022
A Dream Within a Dream
It's four a.m. on a cold winter night, and suddenly I’m wide awake, not jolted awake as if being woken up by someone breaking into my house or a tree falling on the roof. It's more like my mind has just decided that it’s time for my body to get out of bed and do something. I try to ignore my annoying mind and go back to sleep, but eventually, I end up in the kitchen. After downing a couple of glasses of water, raising the weights on the pendulum clock, and having a brief conversation with the cat, I make my way back to bed and lie there, listening to the clock tick while a cuckoo sings about the hours. As night gradually turns into day, I slip into a dream, a dream about sleepwalking through another day.
the distant
cry of a cuckoo
echoes
from the edge
of a forgotten dream
Contemporary Haibun Online, August 2022
cry of a cuckoo
echoes
from the edge
of a forgotten dream
Contemporary Haibun Online, August 2022
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September 2, 2022
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August 27, 2022
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July 23, 2022
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June 21, 2022
Recycling the cover of our 2020 CD with the addition of some rooster haiku.
The Homegrown String Band™
(AKA Rooster Rick & the Cacklin' Hens)
www.homegrownstringband.com
The Homegrown String Band™
(AKA Rooster Rick & the Cacklin' Hens)
www.homegrownstringband.com
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June 1, 2022
Honored to have a poem featured in "Haiku 2022" an anthology of 100 notable English language haiku published in 2021.
Edited by Scott Metz & Lee Gurga and published by Modern Haiku Press.
saying nothing
about everything
empty shells
about everything
empty shells
Autumn Moon Haiku Journal # 5:1, Autumn/Winter 2021-22
Modern Haiku Press - Haiku 2022
Modern Haiku Press - Haiku 2022
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April 23, 2022
March 2022 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest English Semifinalists.
Shukan New York Seiksu, April 2022
New York Seikatsu Press - 4/23/22
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April 19, 2022
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April 1, 2022
Grateful Friend
About thirty years ago, our family became members of The Religious Society of Friends. Sometime shortly after, while trying to describe the essence of a Quaker meeting to an old friend of mine, I compared the feeling of collective consciousness one hopes to attain during a silent meeting for worship, with the experience of a Grateful Dead concert, without the music . . . or the drugs.
One Sunday, a few weeks later, about halfway through meeting, my friend; and soon-to-be Friend, wheeled his bike into the room and took a seat.
One Sunday, a few weeks later, about halfway through meeting, my friend; and soon-to-be Friend, wheeled his bike into the room and took a seat.
squeaky wheel
a Friend arrives late
silence pauses
Failed Haiku # 76, April 2022
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March 15, 2022
a crowd gathers
around the middle of nowhere
Zoom meeting
Golden Haiku Contest Selection 2022
around the middle of nowhere
Zoom meeting
Golden Haiku Contest Selection 2022
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February 26, 2022
2022 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest January Semifinal Selections
Shukan New York Seiksu, February 2022
New York Seikatsu Press - 2/26/22
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December 1, 2021
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| photo by Annalee Jackofsky |
Asleep at the Wheel
Halfway through the story, I come to the conclusion that this author can't be trusted! He can't be trusted to leave me with the happy ending I’m looking for. As a matter of fact, he can’t be trusted to provide any kind of ending at all. Even so, I decide to press on, go along for the ride, just relax and enjoy the scenery; it is all about the journey, right? Later that night, I lie awake, wondering if the next chapter might reveal a clear path through the labyrinth of my dreams.
tinnitus—
a cricket harmonizes
with the ringing in my ears
a cricket harmonizes
with the ringing in my ears
Failed Haiku # 72, December 2021
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November 25, 2021
a garden gone to seed
butterflies stumble
in the autumn breeze
Semifinalist October 2021 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
New York Seikatsu Press November 2021
butterflies stumble
in the autumn breeze
Semifinalist October 2021 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
New York Seikatsu Press November 2021
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September 22, 2021
bent by the wind
an old salt trims his sails
in an empty bottle
Semifinalist September 2021 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
an old salt trims his sails
in an empty bottle
Semifinalist September 2021 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
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August 28, 2021
climbing a mountain the color of the sun
Semifinalist July 2021 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
Semifinalist July 2021 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
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July 25, 2021
tacking
into the wind
a black-backed gull
Semifinalist June 2021 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
into the wind
a black-backed gull
Semifinalist June 2021 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
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July 1, 2021
looking up
We live in the woods; our old house rests under a canopy of maple and oak, sturdy trees that provide us with shade and a welcome respite from the summer heat. Unfortunately, for much of the year, their leafy crowns also block our view of the moon and stars. But sometimes, on a clear winter night, I step out under the leafless branches to catch a glimpse of the heavens above.
pissing
in the snow
stargazer
Failed Haiku # 67, July 2021
We live in the woods; our old house rests under a canopy of maple and oak, sturdy trees that provide us with shade and a welcome respite from the summer heat. Unfortunately, for much of the year, their leafy crowns also block our view of the moon and stars. But sometimes, on a clear winter night, I step out under the leafless branches to catch a glimpse of the heavens above.
pissing
in the snow
stargazer
Failed Haiku # 67, July 2021
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June 24, 2021
the cry of a loon
piercing the morning mist
a red canoe
piercing the morning mist
a red canoe
Semifinalist May 2021 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
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April 22, 2021
the gray area
between two seasons
woodsmoke
between two seasons
woodsmoke
Semifinalist March 2021 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
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March 19. 2021
One of my poems has been selected, in the Golden Haiku Contest, to be one of approximately one hundred haiku that will be printed on placards and displayed around the Golden Triangle neighborhood of downtown Washington D.C. this spring.
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January 1, 2021
On December 12th I was honored to receive the third place award in the English category of the 2020 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest. Domo Arigato!
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November 29, 2020
hanging basil
and canning tomatoes
what’s left of summer
and canning tomatoes
what’s left of summer
Semifinalist October 2020 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
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November 13, 2020
rods and cones
the reds and grays
of autumn days
the reds and grays
of autumn days
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October 25. 2020
summer lingers
in the cool evening air
a few fireflies
in the cool evening air
a few fireflies
Semifinalist September 2020 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
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October 6, 2020
Haibun
Haibun is a literary form originating in Japan and pioneered by the 17th-century haiku poet Matsuo Basho. This poetic form ties together a piece of prose and one or more haiku. Below is a haibun I wrote that was recently published in Frogpond, the journal of the Haiku Society of America. While Basho used haibun to chronicle his travels around Japan, in this piece, I fantasize about a different type of travel.
A Backspace in Time
Once again, my train of thought gets derailed by a steady stream of unconsciousness, bits and bytes of random and somewhat related data, taking me further and further away from myself. At times like this, I dream about going back in time; back to the days when rotary telephones and typewriters were state of the art technological wonders. Is there an app for that?
My DeLorean is in the shop, so I pull the plug and hop onto a 1954 Smith Corona Silent-Super. The rhythm of my analog digits dancing on Bakelite keys accompanied by the sound of typebars smacking into a fresh ribbon invokes visions of Kerouac and Ginsberg, bebop and scat; clickety-clack, I’m back on track.
ringing bells
and rattling bones
smith corona
Frogpond - vol. 43, #3 - Autumn 2020
smith corona
Frogpond - vol. 43, #3 - Autumn 2020
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October 1, 2020
Haiga
Haiga is a Japanese art form that combines an image with a haiku poem. Traditionally haiga featured Japanese-style brush painting and calligraphy, but over the years, the term has grown to include other types of media, including photography and digital images.
With a background in photography and haiku, it was a natural progression for me to start creating photographic haiga. My first published haiga appears in the October 2020 issue of failed haiku: A Journal of English Senryu. The is an image of a fungus with an oxymoronic name, gilled polypore, growing on an oak log, a piece of wood that remains unburned after an unseasonably warm winter and a short maple sugaring season.
Haiga is a Japanese art form that combines an image with a haiku poem. Traditionally haiga featured Japanese-style brush painting and calligraphy, but over the years, the term has grown to include other types of media, including photography and digital images.
With a background in photography and haiku, it was a natural progression for me to start creating photographic haiga. My first published haiga appears in the October 2020 issue of failed haiku: A Journal of English Senryu. The is an image of a fungus with an oxymoronic name, gilled polypore, growing on an oak log, a piece of wood that remains unburned after an unseasonably warm winter and a short maple sugaring season.
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September 28, 2020
heatwave—
the cricket's song interrupted
by a lovers' quarrel
Semifinalist August 2020 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
the cricket's song interrupted
by a lovers' quarrel
Semifinalist August 2020 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
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September 7, 2020
A song I wrote and recorded Labor Day weekend 2012 for all the working people of America and around the world.
September 2, 2020
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Busy Bees
busybodies
spreading gossip
they call it news
spreading gossip
they call it news
Failed Haiku #57, September 2020
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August 22, 2020
fading light—
in the spider’s web
a firefly
July Semifinalist 2020 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
in the spider’s web
a firefly
July Semifinalist 2020 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
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July 25, 2020
sandlot heroes the roar of cicadas
June Semifinalist 2020 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
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June 27, 2020
mother’s day—
a bouquet of flowers
in sixty-four colors
a bouquet of flowers
in sixty-four colors
May Semifinalist 2020 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
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May 14, 2020
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April 8, 2020
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March 28, 2020
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| Cabin fever in New York, 2020 COVID-19 Pandemic |
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March 2020
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February 2020
New Year’s Day
a blanket of snow
covers our tracks
January Semifinalist 2020 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
February 19, 2020 a blanket of snow
covers our tracks
January Semifinalist 2020 Ito En Art of Haiku Contest
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the cat watches
a squirrel watching me
tap a tree
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February 4, 2020
even the cat
sleeps late
a cloudy day
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January 27, 2020
bump ditty bump
ditty bump bump bump
banjo haiku
ditty bump bump bump
banjo haiku
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January 17, 2020
my new laptop a '58 rocket
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| Hermes Rocket |
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January 3, 2020
Congratulations!, Omedeto! to all the winners of the 2019 Ito En Haiku Grand Prix.
dandelions
fill the little girl’s poem
with wonder
fill the little girl’s poem
with wonder
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| New York Seikatsu Press January 1, 2020 |
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January 1, 2020
Happy New Year!
looking back
my twenty-twenty
hindsight
my twenty-twenty
hindsight
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December 13, 2019
Domo Arigato!
My wife and I attended the 2019 Ito En Art of Haiku Grand Prix awards ceremony at the Nippon Club in N.Y.C. where I received my third place award from Rona Tyson, Vice President of Ito En North America. Many thanks to the folks at Ito En, NewYork Seikatsu Press, and the Nippon Club for making the contest and wonderful awards ceremony possible.