Not haiku

There are better mornings,
when the sun is a glorious yellow
and shines pink and blue through the trees,
or when the fog is thick dark gray
and makes one even more grateful for coffee,
warm to brace against the cold,
and satisfyingly hot, buttered toast crunches.
Yet this chill,
despite insomnia,
creeping about to the snores of guests,
and wispy, noncommittal fog
that obscures nothing
but the color of sun rays,
has its own charm:
cat kisses over cold tea,
the smell of peeling an orange,
the quiet roar of the heater,
undisturbed reading and meditation,
grandpa’s paintings of trees...
Perhaps this morning will do.

From the window...

From the window—
dark outlines of green trees,
wispy gray fog.

The beauty of seagulls...

The beauty of seagulls—
often obscured by trash and french fries in parking lots—
But here! 
Dots on blue green waves, 
heads tucked into white feathers, 
sleeping circles on brown sand.

Little birds

Little birds
frolicking in the birdbath—
cats paw the window.

Choir of crickets

Choir of crickets —
background to the snores
of humans and cats.

Cold August morning...

Cold August morning--

overgrown, thorny bushes

promise blackberries.

For My Coffee-Lovin' Friends

Cold morning--
coffee drips into my cup.
It smells like hope.

Don’t tug / Summer heat / To fill a pie / Hopeful

Don’t tug!
Like everything else,
blackberries
come off their vines easily
when they are ready.

—-

Summer heat—
Dandelions stare at the sun
unharmed.

—-

To fill a pie, use
both ripe and unripe berries.
As in the world,
sweet and sour are needed
for the desired taste.

I’m not happy with this one. It needs work. Too didactic & not natural.
—

Hopeful,
a bee hovers over
a glass of lemonade.

Written in Salinas

Expanse of blue--
rows and rows of garlic,
green and fragrant.

Written Today

Grayest May in decades;
yet, pinkish white blossoms on
the blackberry bush.

----

Low tide--
my feet crunch down rocks, shells,
and hermit crab bones.

----

Sign of Spring--
a bumblebee jumps into
a poppy head first.

----

This dreary May--
Sunshine in the form
of dandelions.

----

Star jasmin grows
on the outer walls
of the outhouse.

----

Solitary beach...
I see a pack of men
and turn around.

Not Haiku

I keep your memory alive.

All that grasping for
stories, for
pictures, for
information
when you first died
help me feed my heart

so that nothing about you
will ever be obscure.

But years pass and pass, and though
I have lost the sound of your voice

I know I will recognize it
if I hear it again.