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                                HAIKU LIGHT
 

(February 2001 edition, pg 2)
 

ai li:
 
 

lamplight on snow
i
am going home

through two sets
of windows
moonlight in a doll's house

stars . . .
a flat roof
waiting for me


 

MICHAEL KETCHEK:
 
 

damp morning
below a second story window
the smashed TV

outside the home
in her wheelchair
smoking

the carnations 
of Wang Chi now dust
still their scent


 

MARTIN COHEN:
 
 

Canal Street
the smell of prayer books
and old wine

a drawn cart
on the cobblestones
hay and dung

puddles
near the train station
shivering moons


 

FERRIS GILLI:
 
 

first day
the anhinga's spread wings
fill with light

this overdue letter –
a speckled moth
lights on my thumb

family reunion
all the men's shirt fronts
hug-wrinkled


 

W.F. OWEN:
 
 

year’s end
letting his belt out
another notch

on the beach
the balloon man
pops kelp bladders

pot luck
assigned alphabetically –
I bring oranges


 

CAROLYN HALL:
 
 

cloudless sky
she cranks up
the big white umbrellas

wind in the canopy
waiting
             to feel it

dog day afternoon
a lemon seed
up through the straw

MARK BROOKS:
 
 

hot parking lot
the old man wanders
with a watermelon

fishing trip
animal crackers go
two by two

mountain pines
two brothers scatter
his ashes 


 

BILLIE WILSON:
 
 

quiet house—
the chess game
where we left it

last patch of snow
where the mountain slopes
wild violets

March morning—
ten winter-furred horses
turned toward the sun


 

JUANITO ESCAREAL:
 
 

rolling blackouts –
shining through bare branches
the moon

end of the day –
a persimmon turning
a deeper orange

sunset
in Waikiki beach –
yellow hibiscus


 

DORIS KASSON:
 
 

home again –
the souvenir t-shirt
a size too small

exhaling –
the worm is on the hook

first cold day –
arguing again
over the thermostat


 

TOM CLAUSEN:
 
 

this quiet morning
even the bar of soap
falls apart

without consent
my old sneakers
in the trash

after her letter
no heart to open
    a bill


 

SUE MILL:
 
 

eucalypt saplings –
  filling each shade patch
  one kangaroo

sitting alone
she draws patterns
in the spilled drink

carnival parade –
refusing to march
behind the horses


 

YU CHANG:
 
 

ebb tide
the dark water
carries the moon away

starry night
biting into a melon
full of seeds

nightfall –
through bare branches
slivers of moon


 

ANGELIKA KOLOMPAR:
 
 

grey sea and sky
she dreams
of blue irises

Christmas tree
hanging  memories
one by one


 

ELIZABETH ST JACQUES:
 
 

now just a line 
of pinpoints on her ears
soup kitchen

home from hospital – 
spinning the bicycle wheel
just for its sound

still night pond
 the waterbug 
scattering stars

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