Remember the snow? The white stuff? Well, here it is in my photo from last December included in MacQueen’s Quinterly So happy to see it in this wonderful journal together with two of my haiku. Thank you to editor Clare MacQueen!
.winter wonderland
how many snowflakes
to magic
new snow...
the sound only silence
makes
The three micro-haibun from the series-in-progress The Censored Poems
The very antithesis of cherry blossom. On the one hand and on the other. And in between
breathing the torpid air of the mausoleum morels, porcini, chanterelles
*
Play if you must. Laugh till you cry. But life is serious. The road is hard, paved with hunger, illness, war. Greed and envy. They will haunt you. Pick apples if you must. Oranges, figs. It won’t make any difference.
Hosannah! at the nudist beach my sunglasses
*
Now that that illness accosted me and I stood up to it, I feel entitled to a few wisdoms.
minding the gap the chilling beauty of angels
Happy New Year 2023! And happy news! Issue 16 of MacQueen’s Quinterly is out!
Filled with excellent work by fellow poets, it makes for a great read! I am particularly chuffed to have 3 of my micro-haibun included from “Censored Poems,” a series in progress. My heartfelt thanks to Clare MacQueen for giving them a home.
My heartfelt thanks to editor Clare MacQueen for publishing this haibun
in issue 7 of MacQueen’s Quinterly. It had originally appeared in the
Wales Haiku Journal.
It’s at its loudest in the early morning hours. Before light dissolves darkness, before the neighbour leaves for work, before the birds start singing, his laboured breathing comes over the baby monitor whispering, gurgling, rattling, spluttering….
I lie awake listening to the crack of thunder, the roaring waterfall, the sounds of the sea emitted from his chest. A car starting, the exhaust backfiring, the train leaving station. The boat reversing in the harbour. Light rain. A soft meow. His breathing renders a whole world. In this soundscape, I make out the stories he told me when years ago he put me to bed.
Soon, light dispels the apparitions, and his breath comes over the monitor soft, steady, regular, lulling me to sleep.
music of the spheres
how we became
human
