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.

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.

Senryu or Haiku? And what's Tanka?

After you read the link, you'll understand why I often think I should have named this blog "Sorta Kinda Senryu." But, as is obvious from reading my earlier writing, I didn't really know what Haiku were, let alone Senryu. And I'd heard of Tanka before, but never tried to write one. I've only written a couple. Here's one I wrote this morning.

Blackberry flowers, 
white & delicate in the sun; 
milk thistle purple 
fringe on the green, thorny stalk; 
nothing ripe yet.

https://akitahaiku.com/what-are-haiku-senryu-and-tanka/

I love my neighbors' blackberry bushes.

Thorny green branches - - 
white flowers, but no berries. 
The blackbirds will wait.

- - - - - - - - -

Thorny branches stray 
over the old gray fence - - 
no blackberries yet.

Outside my window...

Outside my window --
one white flower grows
on the biggest bush.

3 Versions

Dark, cold night--
in a sweater and no socks,
eating ice cream alone.

------------

Sad-eating ice cream 
in a sweater and no socks.
Boy, are my feet cold!

------------

Sad-eating ice cream 
in a sweater and no socks-- 
white noise of TV.

Pulling weeds at dusk...

Pulling weeds at dusk --
a tiny lizard escapes
the next handful.


Pulling weeds at dusk --
winds blow clouds --
white crescent moon.


Pulling weeds at dusk,
I smile at small lizards
who scurry away.

The rushing of freeways

The rushing of freeways--
a small white and grey stray sneaks
past, alone. 

A better version, I think.

O, White Butterfly
in the green water plants,
beware the birds!

Small white butterfly

Small white butterfly,
green water plants --
Beware the heron!

Outside are birdsong...

Trying Tanka. I'm missing some syllables.  I'm not sure if the "less is more" approach to syllables holds with Tanka like it does with Haiku. More to learn!

Outside are birdsong
and white and purple flowers --
I listen sometimes,
and sometimes really see,
but I'm no monk.

Two Haiku

The old graveyard--
hot sun filters down
through green leaves.

---------------

Little white fingers trace
sculpted grave statues--
filtered sunlight.


As a child, I spent at least part of my summers with my two aunts in Placerville. My favorite aunt, Annie, was very involved with a church very near an old graveyard there.  I would go over there and play, reading the stones, touching the statues, feeling the summer heat even in the shade of the trees. It was a peaceful place, with headstones and statues that were beautiful to me. 

Green rosemary...

Green rosemary,
white butterfly,
Autumn sunshine.

The cats and I watch...

The cats and I watch
the white butterfly for
different reasons.

9/1/14

Summer's end?  Not here:
black and white birds fly past
parched grass to a green tree.

Nan's Fingers

Soft white, Nan's fingers
trace Kitty's silent frame
with adoration. 

5/14/14

My hands tent the moth—
soft white wings flutter—
I release it with hope.

August Daily Blog Challenge Post 3: a Pleasant Memory

Here are two!

Feet buried in sand;

waves effervesce in sunlight;

seagulls chase white foam.

------------------

Warm, sweet berries burst!

A sweeter counterpoint of

brown sugar and—Bliss!


I thought about explaining my haiku about these memories, but I realized that explaining means I don't think my poems did a good enough job, so...  Let's hope they did & I don't have to.

8/2/11

In the city,
only buildings are beautiful.
Anemic trees host squirrels
who seem more like rats than do
their bushy country cousins.
City sparrows look best bathing in a
man-made fountain, hopping
daintily from one concrete block
to another.

Maybe that's why I like the city at night:
dark obscures the trash of the streets;
white, golden domes of civic centers shine pure;
the squirrels have retired into the trees;
sparrows have hopped to shelters under eaves;
and only people, their lights, their batteries, their phones
show,
instead of natural reminders of destruction.
And in this dark, it's easy to look away from sights
that don't fit my versions of beauty.

White ghost and dark page...

White ghost and dark page,
sun upon the water-- night
approaches alone.