Even more Haiku for the Dragon Year

a day of half-measures;
touching and just missing:
slightly off-centre


waking to a world
better than its dreams,
the snail delights in the rain


buzzard skywards
spiralling: leaves behind no marks
that i can discern


plum blossom and forsythia
lit by the moon:
both equally white


each year the trees
blossom more beautifully
but my own flowers fade

Yet more Haiku for the Dragon Year

rummaging in the bag
for a haiku, i found instead
empty space


if it's true that
we reincarnate, then we are
our own ancestors


my kind of season: this
soft grey sky; bare twigs
just breaking into bud


change the world
one doubt at a time: ask the
impossible question


haiku? can't do.
brain needs defragmentation -
possibly new software


i load up my plate
with the future.  the notice says:
all you can eat!


branches swamped with birds
the trees give voice: each twig
a-buzz with birdy news


this morning there was no world
beyond the dense white fog
which wrapped the field


primroses return: pale
at the foot of the ash tree,
snuggled in grass


leafless twigs, painted
on one side with soft dabs
of reddish-orange light

More Haiku for the Dragon Year

beyond this room
is world: in every direction
(or so i believe)


pusscat intently
sniffing the rush matting:
rememberance of mice past


blackbird in the dusk sings
dusk in the blackbird:
theme and variations


after chaos: calm.
after calm - no, better not
complete this logic


like an ill-fitting hat:
the green-grey sky;  whatever
was gained is lost

A Haiku a day...

in January i decided to write one haiku for every day of the Dragon year.  here are some of the ones i've written so far, starting with the most recent:



fledgling dragon arrives:
splintered moon
reflected in a dark puddle


on frosted grass: the
Brueghel birds
pecking up every seed, every seed


to and fro:  is there
anything else?  dark birds feed
in the frozen grass


loss: like stretching out
a hand in the dark,
unable to see its shape


seeing his painting
from a distance:
now suddenly i understand


silently the brush
strokes the painting: one, two,
three thousand times and more


twisted, winter-bare
branches, lichen-green: smudged
tenderly by snowflakes


raw air, white fields;  muted
bird calls.  too cold
even to write a haiku


the radiators
softly tick;  outside
sparrows' voices chip the air


white chrysanthemum petal
hangs in the sky - and now an owl
calls out


the storm bellows
its argument.  trees growl at each other
in the dark


pusscat yawns, licks paw,
circles damp paw on face;
suddenly looks at me


dusk settles like an old cat:
spreads its apron of fur;
folds its soft paws


get going: the bus
won't catch itself.  the teeth won't
fill themselves, either


moon, you're past your full - so
stop sending these wild
implausible dreams!


i think there are
no words; or none which fit
this reposeful place today


a soft greeting
warbled, as pusscat enters
the room, quiet as sunshine


night before last: vixen barks,
owl screeches - cacophony!
and moonlight


wind scours the branches, yet
sixteen apples still
refuse to be dislodged


on its way: the dragon
we know or the dragon we don't know.
which one?