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HAIKU LIGHT
 
 

Stargazer Photograph, Sandra Morgan©2001





September 2001, page 2

MICHAEL TODD:
 
 

my children
fishing in the rain barrel
not one bite
 

although she's gone
her dolls
still listening
 

summer wind
tall grass
brushes the moon

H.F. NOYES:
 
 

hazy headwaters –
pale green dusk and the willow
blend into one

BARRY GEORGE:
 
 

wind in the reeds—
full moon
in the loblolly pine
 

changing a bike tire—
the kitten watches me
through still spokes
 

sand painting
the cat steps out
of its litter box

SHELBY K. IRONS:
 
 

bare feet
 in fresh mud
 dancing in the rain
 

 on the roof
 a million stars
 close enough to touch

 LENARD D. MOORE:
 
 

home alone—
I listen to a meadowlark 
mimicking itself 
 

plowing day— 
a pale cloud passes 
the tractor 
 

noon sun 
a black bug 
digs a hole 

DRAGAN J. RISTIC:
 
 

bouquet of lilies –
in a cellophane prison
a wandering bee
 

lights out
before the air raid –
bright moon
 

seller's thundering voice
the redness
of sliced watermelon

KAY GRIMNES:
 
 

deserted alley
heavy anger of his fist
against the old brick
 

hot still night
the endless chirping cricket
of the neighbor's fan
 

gulls
each body pointed
into the wind

CLAUDIA GRAF:
 
 

pond grasses
tips reach out
to watery twins
 

rainsnakes
wiggling through
window-framed blossom
 

curled snakeskin
warm from the dirt road
fits in my palm

SVETOMIR DJURBABIC:
 
 

A gypsy boy 
sharing given bread
with the pigeons 
 

Dark shelter – 
I step on
a child's toy
 

Peacock's tail
in the spring sunshine – 
goldsmith's shopwindow 

JOHN STEVENSON:
 
 

Paul Bunyan –
whole headlines
in the paper-mache
 

summer camp
my bunkmate
believes in ghosts
 

in the other room
my brother recites my poems
for laughs

CAROLYN HALL:
 
 

asking directions
from strangers –
    my home town
 

clay path
bootprints fill
with orange rain
 

mammogram waiting room
she rips a page
from a magazine

KIRSTY KARKOW:
 
 

blue sky
I almost miss
the morning glory
 

cat's grave . . .
violet shades of evening
merge into night
 

still morning
only the sound
of my tinnitus

J. MARCUS WEEKLEY:
 
 

diving into the wreck
those winter Sundays:
the wasteland
 

empty McDonald's bag
I still feel
empty
 

pulling in the nets
letting baby crabs go

MARTIN MIKELBERG:
 
 

l  ooking
i  nside
l  iking
y ourself
 

B A L      N C E
           A
 

s olo
o ne's
u nique
l ight

JOANN KLONTZ:
 
 

writing a check
warmth of the counter
where the last patient leaned
 

signing our wills...
the lawyer's sheep
munch leaves
 

her eulogy...
he twists each thorn
from a long-stemmed rose

MARIA STEYN:
 
 

picking sweetpeas –
a tiny spider swings 
from a strand of light
 

falling leaves . . . 
a butterfly flits
over the electric fence
 

old age home
an African violet blooms
on every windowsill

CARLOS COLÓN:
 
 

competing with the priest
a choir
of birdsong
 

Japanese lanterns
the ticking of
soft rain
 

farmer pointing the way
with a shotgun

PAUL WATSKY:
 
 

dimly lit
brightly iIluminated
The Book of Kells 
 

foggy New Year's –
crows hopping on and off
a sea lion carcass

ELIZABETH ST JACQUES:
 
 

the bluebird
in the sky
lost to it
 

on the wall
meeting its older self
the ivy
 

pulling its sound
through a tunnel
the midnight train
 

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