Fuzzy Bird Flower

 

 Winter white goes on;
Spring is just a memory
About to happen.

The tufted titmouse
Crashes into the feeder--
(Other birds don't laugh).

 

Fuzzy bird flower
Emerging from the thin air
Heads for the feeder.

 

White wisps of smoke flow
From the old farm house chimney
Joining the soft clouds.

Assholes with beer cans
Decorate the road, field, stream--
Art for imbeciles.

 

Snaking through the snow,
Dead leaves' forgotten memories--
Brown stream of the Spring. 

No longer alive
They're hosting a new life form:
Lichen-tattooed trees.

The mound of blackness
Seems much colder than the cold--
A burned out bonfire.

 

Shadows Have Crept In

Just a word for those who have seen this site before. (And those who haven't). I started this blog very soon after I started this walk on Yerry Hill Road. Ten years ago? Twelve? After about a year I thought that photographs would intertwine with the haiku and have been adding photos of this walk together with the haiku. 

The ancient Japanese haiku masters did not use photographs to illustrate their haiku. I know that,  but still love adding this dimension. After all, we live in the 21st century not the 17th century of Matsuo Basho, the icon of haiku.  And I have been resistant to rules since I was three (or two?). And poetry has so many rules that are made to be broken. 

Nevertheless, I have strictly followed  the haiku rule of five syllables in the first line, seven syllables in the second line and five syllables in the third. I do think that poetic structure has meaning. (I mean, can you imagine a Shakespearean sonnet written in the form of a limerick? )

So I plug along with my haiku and my photographs. And I become more proficient in both media. 

Today, I set out on my walk with my Leica DLux6 (my second right hand). I knew the pictures were repetitive, unexciting, and somewhat strained. But, still. 

I came back and dutifully began the process of downloading them from the my Leica to my desktop site and then formatting the SD when the files were downloaded. What happened is that the pictures disappeared into nowhere. And I was left with my naked haiku.

Funny thing is that my distress about this lasted less than half a minute. Here is a chance to present my haiku without digital accompaniment. A good opportunity. In fact, I am thinking that, perhaps, ever other day, or twice a week, I would do this regularly. Just thinking. Enjoy!

I have erased them:
All the photo's from this walk.
(Doesn't matter much.)

 Second day of Spring;
The icicles are dripping.
First chickadee eats.

Shadows on the snow--
There's a lightness in the air.
Ice keeps on dripping.

Forsythia bud
Looks like it holds a secret--
Of life or of death?

Rooster is crowing;
He's been quiet all winter
(Or just out of sound).

Shadows of the rocks
Lie still under the water
Of the running stream.

Caught by their neighbors,
Fallen trees hang supported
Above snowy woods.

New dog on the block:
Roto barking up a storm;
(Will get used to me.)

Now the road is gray;
No shadows are to be seen--
The clouds have crept in.

Cogitating Squirrel

 

A lone icicle
Hangs shining from my drain pipe.
Its friends have all gone.

 

Cogitating squirrel
Tries to figure out his path
To the bird feeder.

 

 Crows chatter softly;
Other birds call in the trees;
Ghost of a plane sound.

No clouds in the sky;
Shadows fall abundantly
On the sunny road.

Above rushing stream
Solitary piece of ice
Hanging immobile.

The dead fallen tree
Lying perpendicular
To its own shadow.

 

 

 Faded sumac buds
Hold on through many seasons.
Do they ever fall?

The ancient boulder
Has sprouted its whiskers.
(It looks much older).

Waiting to be Sung

 

A gray morning light
Pales over the melting snow;
Pine trees are dripping.

 

Small birds are streaming;
They fly from all directions--
Their daily breakfast.

 

The scent of water
Hangs on the air like perfume
From an ancient sea.

 

 Two birds on a wire
Like some stray musical notes
Waiting to be sung.

 

 Drop laden branches
Crown the swirling dark water
Of the snow free stream.

 

 Slowly brown appears
As the winter white recedes--
A Spring undressing.

Drops are everywhere
Perched on the edge of bushes
Reflecting the sky.

 

A complaining tree
Groans in a brief gust of wind
Betraying its age.

(They Have Yet to Meet)

Friday, March 13

Across frigid air,
The sound of a mooing cow--
Olivia calls. 

 

A Schubert quintet
Plays on this cold winter morning,
Warming me inside.

 

White water tumbles:
The streams are speaking again
Lisping syllables. 

 

Line of frozen filth:
Snow banks have received the cars
And embalmed their fumes.

The buds are still brown;
The green ones wait patiently
For a touch of warmth.

 

Is it ice? plant? stone?
Frozen monster by the road,
A winter bastard.

 

 A man with a sack
Carries his silence with it.
(Was he ever there?)

On top of the tree
Cardinal calls for his love.
(They have yet to meet.)

Sunday, March 15

 Gray winter's still here;
Birds peck in the yielding snow.
Quiet Sunday morn.

 

The new bird feeder
Perplexes the birds and squirrels.
Hunger will guide them.

 

 

Olivia itch
Relieved against the barn door--
Ahhh. Bovine pleasure!
 

 

 Fleeting clouds above
Reflect in the stream below.
(As above, below)

 

 Windows through windows,
The empty house invites me
To the other side.

When the sun peeks out
Shadows appear in the woods
Lying on the snow.

A few snow flakes fall;
The wind bellows in the woods;
Winter is still here.

Against my eye glass
A stray snow flake has melted--
Liquid perception.