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Haibun
Faces
Yesterday's deep snow is trampled and smudged. The path isn't
easy to walk—each
step is a sideslip and my ankles hurt. Faded posters of dead
people watch me from fences, walls, signposts, street lamps,
trees. This custom, quite natural for the Balkans, may seem odd
and even ominous to foreigners.
Lighting a candle, I whisper a prayer then walk my slippery way
back. The decorations do not hide last elections' leftovers,
hanging next to the pictures of our loved ones. Just for a
moment I wish the living and the dead could change places.
necrology—
the electoral candidate's
torn face
Haiku
a lemon slice
in my whiskey glass
this hazy moon
north wind—
an angry dog tugs
at my coat
thin snow …
sparrows skirmish over
crumbs
sour wine—
the curve of his lips
at her voice
briar’s fruit
on frosty thorns
drops of blood
stalking
in the dewy grass
…my shadow
humpty dumpty
in a puddle
I stomp the moon
withered field…
gusts of north wind shake
the stars
frosted birches
sparkle by the road…
brides on tiptoes
mountain drive—
a low sun counting trees
across my face
Lanterne
Survivors
Through
cold cracked
sandstone slates
small lawn daisies
bloom.
Ancient Mariner
White
whale swims
in vast blue
ocean—a
cloud
sails.
Cinquain
Red on White
News reel
before your eyes
the whiff from a dove’s wing
sprinkles blood across your face—red
on white.
Spring Dance
Masks jump,
copper bells chime,
drums thrum, voices shout out—
dancing around to shoo evil
away
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