Our prayer is like a sand mandala: we don’t write it down, so it drifts away on the wind.
With wheel squeeze he’ll get there, a man of destination, his foot pressuring on past a diner serving fresh pie.
Sandalwood mala at 4:00 am
soft voices splash on the street
rain lingers in the air.
The beads pass
but sleep has flown;
gulls are laughing.
Three haiku
North Carolina:
red earth is dusty salmon
from the plane
*
I buy my niece
that skirt with shorts under
for cartwheels
*
Sitting in a dark car
I watch the fireflies
high on the pines
Kris Lindbeck
Pastoral
More beets than morning glories
in the garden now.
I sip merlot and contemplate red.
The cardinal sings in the wild cherry.
Quatrain
words are magic, magic is words
(siren, serene, sliver, sword)
opening hearts, closing minds
(eggshell, box, & lemon rinds)
—
PF Anderson
Pearl in a boy’s hand, unable to let go of that part of her that rolled towards him, a woman, who one day will forget her broken necklace.
love semaphores
1
in her lap her hands
engaged in semaphore
with themselves
2
lost in her contraband
he explored exotic new continents
3
he covers her face in small gestures
creating a soft language
only she can decipher
rumours in the dry leaves of one last midsummer day’s breeze
Found my moon:
A circle of rainwater
In a black plastic bucket
Paiku [written for Haiku Bandit’s June 2009 Moon Viewing Party]
Bodies
Our fingertips are rhythm: the whorled waves of skin, the throb of pulse, the gentle tattooing of letters into words. The years of work.
* * *
For each cell in your body, there are ten single-celled organisms at work on or inside you. Yes, you’re 10% human and 90% bacterial bustle.
* * *
Why in age do ears and nose still grow? To better embrace a whisper from our love, to drink the sweet heavy nectar of their sleeping breath.
* * *
We discover each other, over wide chasms and grave odds, the way one cello softly hums when the strings of another are bowed.
oddlydelightful
guest contributor
watercolour morning we bleed outside our outlines into the rain Mark Holloway Sky blue, steel gray clouds a crow wades through grass green grass crayon afternoon K. Lindbeck
tanka – not the way
This is not
the way (to go where?)
or its tree.
This is not a dream,
these things are not things.
