Guest Book

full-fox-print-color-corrected-reducedWelcome!  Please read some of my poetry while you’re here. Even if a post is two years old, they’re being read every day. They’re all current. Feel free to join the conversation. Lastly, treat this post as a Guest Book. Offer suggestions, improvements, requests or just say Hello! If you have a question concerning poetry or a poem, click read more at the end of this sentence and fill out the form. Continue reading

August 28th 2016

·—
 under
····the heat of a birch tree’s shade—the girl’s sun-
········burn
·
·
My daughters have returned from the coast of Maine. The ocean is cold going in, but warm enough for staying. They’ve brought me the fragile shell of a sea-urchin and the sand between their toes. They sleep gingerly tonight, the sun still on their shoulders and backs.
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291 August 28th 2016 | bottlecap
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August 27th 2016

·
old
····cider jug—a spider’s sticky web
········inside
·
·
The days almost regretfully grow shorter. But the clouds are never more beautiful than in late August and early September. They’re moody, tall, many-layered, brilliant at noon, multi-colored at sunset and broodily philosophize as the sun and moon trade places. Instead of filling the sky, they enlarge and loom in its breadth and scope.
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290 August 27th 2016 | bottlecap
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August 26th 2016

·
waiting
····for the school bus—the boy, the girl,
········the crow
·
·
As if singed by too much sun, the wildflowers have begun to fade and shrivel. The fields have been tedded and the hay rolled up. The corn rows are tasseled and the rotund pumpkins sip on the vine.
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289 August 26th 2016 | bottlecap
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August 23rd 2016

·
Chickadees
····stealing sunflower seeds—each day a little
········shorter
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·
This is an older haiku that I’m adding into my year long mix just because I’ve always loved it; and because the time of the year begins to remind me of it. The evenings are cooling and the days are noticeably shorter, though nothing as short as they’ll become. As I haiku’d this past winter, there won’t be enough sun to broom on the kitchen floor.
·
But it’s still August. I get ahead of myself. The haiku of the last two nights were a struggle. I returned to both yesterday and today—both of them feeling flat. I’ve let myself get too tired and perhaps look forward to November. I’ll write my 366th haiku and the next night, when I’m tired, go to sleep. But it’s been a wonderful discipline and I have hunch I’ll write another year’s worth.
·
after
····the morning’s harvest—her ankles
········wet
·
The bowls are filling with cucumbers, peppers and zucchini and the earliest apples are weighing the trees.
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286 August 23rd 2016 | bottlecap
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August 21st 2016

·
late
····August—rain darkening in the scorched
········fields
·
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I continue to read whatever haiku I can find, though Basho remains the most commonly translated and, in truth, the poet nearest my own conception of haiku. Whereas earlier in the year I looked for guidance, I  mostly read other poets for enjoyment now. After so many months, I feel as though I’ve internalized my own conception of haiku—August 19th being among my favorites. It’s the unexpected observation; the concrete image; the allusion that lends a beautiful surrealism to unanticipated association. Always, in the back of my mind, Basho’s haiku:
·
winter garden
·····the moon thinned to a thread
··········insects singing
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What each image has to do with the next is uncertain, and yet Basho makes them seem inseparable and beautifully interdependent. I ask myself: How could it be any other way?
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284 August 21st 2016 | bottlecap
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