Haiku Sonnet: Waiting for You

Afternoon dwindles:
the sky gathers birds flying
to some unseen rest,
the evening sun
amasses on surfaces
like condensation,
as if the inner
light of objects collected
like dew. A life so
infused—remembered,
revealed—would drown desire
at last. It can’t last—
doors open to love’s return,
the body of night.

Haiku Sonnet: Flying Home

Thinking of this space
as a ship, I wonder if
I’m a passenger
or cargo. Carried
in any case, I consent
to this craft, bow to
another pilot.
When I was young, I felt
the earth traveling—
a loose-wheeled wagon
beneath me—and heard each
shimmy and squeak as
progress. Now a wind bears me
without wing or sail.

Haiku Sonnet: Echo

They say some echoes
never stop. Sound penetrates
to atoms and rings
interminably.
Or until another gong—
or temple bell—stirs
the flowers again.
Outside, wrinkled continents
of snow slip from slate
roofs. Each sloppy crash
echoes around the courtyard
and the sound never
melts. It is no day to stand
in the open sky.

Haiku Sonnet: I Remember Winter

I remember winter
now that it’s here—the next word
in a song, a plea
for love you forget
until a character speaks.
Now I remember—
outside this window,
one leaf clung all winter. Wind
set it fluttering
like a hummingbird.
Its sociable flicker was
like life. One day
it flew away, and I thought—
it wouldn’t ever come back.

Haiku Sonnet: Hide and Seek

I stood amid thorns—
and she hid with me, close, so
little space to share.
When their steps faded
we stayed, her breath on my neck
a rhythm akin
to my heart, akin
to the crickets speeding night
and the air astir
between our bodies.
I didn’t want her to go—her
absence was the hurt
of every still moment
I couldn’t be found.

The Haiku Life

Writing my daily haiku, I sometimes ponder the discontinuity between my life and those of the masters I revere. They were monastic and, for much of their lives, itinerate. Basho writes of his journeys, Buson had little care about making money as a painter, writer, or human, and Issa frequently [...]

Haiku Sonnet: Urban September

art by Maria Cavacos
A bright evening—
the city-planted trees reach
into plots of light, and
dog walkers wander
between the bare faces of
buildings. As far as
you can see, the street
travels straight, the earth travels
round, and the sun wanes.
No poem will stop it.
A car with a faulty fan belt
shrieks nearby. A child—
expecting locusts—turns
and sees me watching.

Haiku Sonnet: Equinox

If the sun was late,
it threw shadows the same way,
it warmed walls the same,
crept over roofs just
as it did yesterday, light
pulling like fire
along a fuse. Noon
wasn’t late, though old men squinted
into watch faces,
cursed and placed the sky’s
peak a little lower. Dusk
runs ahead. The sun
stretches to meet night—this one
and every other.

Haiku Sonnet: After Closing

His job is to sweep
beneath tables floating like
a floor laid on air.
Chairs perched upside down
look over his progress as
he shepherds a crowd
of crumbs in shadow.
The manager and his wife
dip heads in prayer
to love. Before he
reaches them, their hands signal
goodnight. Keys jingle
faintly as they walk away,
locking him inside.

Haiku Sonnet 2: Hidden*

Left to remember
the last items on a list
left on the table
at home, I wait for
food on grocery shelves to
volunteer. I am
the one still person
on this aisle. Others flutter
restlessly between
needs—their eyes scanning
messages hidden from them
in shapes and colors—
but we’re all on the same route,
expecting destinations.
This haiku sonnet is the second of seven in a [...]