the last of march has skitted away
like a jackrabbit, the vestige of grey swept
clean by rains to uncover the cerulean;
but the tree still dons its winter look—
black etchings against a tincture of blue,
some blossoms fallen, carried away
by the wind into small pools of puffy tufts,
ready to be cradled into garbage trucks
with bristles and brown, and woody twigs
crowned by clusters of snowy bracts,
that look down to watch the pink wash,
slowly filter through and stain
the alligator hide, until it turns
a stunning autumnal red—
a telling
bark of the dogwood.


April 2017—National Poetry Month

To celebrate April—National Poetry Month,
I started posting one Haiku a day on Twitter
and Facebook. I didn’t get started right away
because of other commitments. I’ve reposted
them here, since some of my friends are not
on Social Media. Feel free to comment.


April, come she will…
When streams are ripe
and swelled with rain…

A burst of poppies reappear—
a splash of gold and green
yellow cups of sunshine
palms upturned offering
petals of peace and poems
for our troubled world…

Celebrating National Poetry Month, April 2017

walking a thin line
between what’s big and BIG—note:
the word BIG is small


leaps past the clock into night
I’ve lost my morning

Screen Shot 2017-04-21 at 11.41.45 PM

I hear the clock tick
louder in the silent room—
I quieten my heart

clock sm

haikus are lines with
seventeen syllables—bent-
back measuring sticks

ruler sm

morning starts alone—
days feel like old luggage, now x
too heavy to drag


words falling like spit
on hot concrete, dissipate—
like nothing was said


grass shoots up—as high
as weed. I inhale—Ah! Sweet,
the smell of drizzle.


birds on high wire
tweet on air, sharing posts—they’re
birds of a feather

birds sm

tired eyes pop like
Slinkys—their helical springs
unfurl rods and cones


the evening glow spreads thick,
like marmalade on toast—
bittersweet memories



taxiing through taxes
plowing through the pile—toiling
roiling, plowed under


haikus—like bells, are
sweet little chimes that tinkle
and linger awhile


posting little notes—
like offering votive lights
to appease the night



if yeast is yeast, and
Best is Best—never will egg
‘n’ mayo be rice


yet a dance, though no
movement, rhythmic heartbeat
vibrations abound


trying to write at night
I’ve lost more pens, than ideas
in folds of the quilt


music from the flute
as it trips and meanders
through large empty caves


money is not love. love
is what I thought I had. now,
money’s all I want

how very sleek is
the emerging Monarch now,
then ah! the brilliance!

life has a way of
putting us in tight corners . . .
helps expand our minds


for years his book graced
my shelf—chanced to read last week
he died yesterday

ink blots and shadows
have one thing in common—they
throw you for a loop

garbage trucks rumble
sirens claw their way through traffic
ah,Thursday morning!

dreams that wake you up,
only remind you’re asleep,
not dead—your first pass

unlike these chalk marks
carved in stone, your words with me
I have paraphrased

last cup of tea as
bedtime nears, something’s afloat—
tip of a teabag


Folks wait in lines to
treat mom to lunch—if mom cooked
they’d be done by now


—The most common way people
give up their power is by thinking
they don’t have any. (Alice Walker)

Sometimes, there is nothing
you can do in a situation
you have no control over

but you can still decide
for yourself, what sounds
right in your heart.

In the convent school,
the nuns taught us
about our conscience—

They said the little voice
you heard in your head
was God talking to you.

All my life, I have believed
and understood, it defined
something important—

morality—a moral
consciousness—a state
or quality of awareness

of something external—
—within ourselves. Being
aware of what’s right

and what’s not. Speaking
out when you know
something’s awry;

taking that step to help
the blind, or teach
the obtuse, to connect

a wrong—or stop abuse
from people in power or
those in charge. We can

stand up for our rights.
Stay strong in spite of—
because of—what we

believe is right. Power up.


A last ditch effort to give a shout out to the 2-million and then some Americans, whose hearts and hopes have vanished as quickly as the year 2016 itself. This is for us Democrats—and we shall prevail.


It’s coming through a hole in the air,
From those nights in Tiananmen Square.
It’s coming from the feel
That this ain’t exactly real,
Or it’s real, but it ain’t exactly there.
From the wars against disorder,
From the sirens night and day,
From the fires of the homeless,
From the ashes of the gay:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

It’s coming through a crack in the wall
On a visionary flood of alcohol
From the staggering account
Of the Sermon on the Mount
Which I don’t pretend to understand at all.
It’s coming from the silence
On the dock of the bay,
From the brave, the bold, the battered
Heart of Chevrolet
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

It’s coming from the sorrow in the street,
The holy places where the races meet
From the homicidal bitchin’
That goes down in every kitchen
To determine who will serve and who will eat.
From the wells of disappointment
Where the women kneel to pray
For the grace of God in the desert here
And the desert far away:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

Sail on, sail on
O mighty Ship of State!
To the Shores of Need
Past the Reefs of Greed
Through the Squalls of Hate
Sail on, sail on, sail on, sail on.

It’s coming to America first,
The cradle of the best and of the worst.
It’s here they got the range
And the machinery for change
And it’s here they got the spiritual thirst.
It’s here the family’s broken
And it’s here the lonely say
That the heart has got to open
In a fundamental way:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

It’s coming from the women and the men.
O baby, we’ll be making love again.
We’ll be going down so deep
The river’s going to weep,
And the mountain’s going to shout Amen!
It’s coming like the tidal flood
Beneath the lunar sway,
Imperial, mysterious,
In amorous array
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

Sail on, sail on

I’m sentimental, if you know what I mean
I love the country but I can’t stand the scene.
And I’m neither left or right
I’m just staying home tonight,
Getting lost in that hopeless little screen.
But I’m stubborn as those garbage bags
That Time cannot decay,
I’m junk but I’m still holding up
This little wild bouquet
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

——Songwriters: COHEN, LEONARD
Democracy lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC


‘The blossom of the thistle’, as Modern scholar Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie refers to the artichoke in his book Les Paysans de Languedoc, is an extraordinary flower—a brilliant deep purple exploding its tentacular filaments like a giant sea anemone in the midst of bright green foliage.

Considered as an aphrodisiac tidbit in southeastern France, the artichoke was introduced to the United States in the 19th century to Louisiana by French immigrants, and to California by Spanish immigrants. The name has originated from the Arabic al-kharshof, through a northern Italian dialect word, articiocco.

Surprisingly, I found this royal burst of purple growing in my neighbor’s strip garden by the sidewalk. I had seen nothing like it—this gigantic, and exceptionally magnificent flower—that held me in a trance. I could not snap out of it.