tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38617398148344250362024-03-13T13:51:30.786-07:00A Well Lit Doga haiku journal by Carolyne RohrigUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-75924493705230972482013-01-20T15:05:00.003-08:002013-01-20T19:03:03.106-08:00haiku7beach house -<br />
unlocking the gate<br />
to the ocean<br />
<br />
<br />
ginko<br />
pelicans skim the waves<br />
in groups of 5-7-5<br />
<br />
<br />
in and out<br />
of the haiku lesson -<br />
the fragrance of the lilies <br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-64829427508474193012013-01-20T14:44:00.002-08:002013-01-20T19:03:16.770-08:00haiku6sweltering heat<br />
the ice popping<br />
in the Kool-Aid<br />
<br />
<br />
raking the Zen garden<br />
at the beach house<br />
<br />
<br />
vineyard verandah -<br />
we sit listening<br />
to the grapes grow <br />
<br />
<br />
virgin winter<br />
she wears white<br />
to bed<br />
<br />
<br />
she draws violets<br />
with purple pencils<br />
in between her toes<br />
<br />
<br />
moss<br />
on redwood trunks -<br />
my son's new beard <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-76976872524031037802013-01-20T14:33:00.005-08:002013-01-20T19:03:27.486-08:00haiku5petals<br />
of the red poppy<br />
rip in the wind<br />
<br />
<br />
surgery center<br />
leaving parts of me behind<br />
<br />
<br />
open window<br />
the moon's reflection<br />
in the toilet bowl<br />
<br />
<br />
tucked deep<br />
in lingerie<br />
a lavender sachet<br />
<br />
<br />
sipping rose wine<br />
in the bubble bath<br />
a misty moonUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-4385245767251767552013-01-20T14:26:00.000-08:002013-01-20T19:03:56.188-08:00haiku4cobwebs<br />
in the corners<br />
of his eyes<br />
<br />
<br />
oak barrel<br />
sweet peas spilling<br />
into the bar<br />
<br />
<br />
jazz music<br />
moth shadows dance<br />
on the living room wall<br />
<br />
<br />
jogging at dusk<br />
around the neighborhood<br />
the smell of garlicUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-35002865046338941672013-01-20T14:19:00.000-08:002013-01-20T19:02:45.310-08:00Cider Scent<br />
The neighbors' Christmas lights dance around their bushes, front porches, and entryways. The full moon shines through the trees. Everyone is indoors. The street lies empty.<br />
<br />
I park the car. Enter the house. Throw off my shoes. Look inside the refrigerator and stare. Pop a frozen dinner in the microwave. Go to my room. Open the window.<br />
<br />
across the street<br />
the bougainvillea flashes<br />
on and off<br />
<br />
The microwave buzzer goes off. Sort through the mail while eating dinner. Bills, store catalogs, a Christmas card addressed in gold letters. Rip it open.<br />
<br />
season's greetings<br />
from the mortgage company<br />
<br />
Turn on the TV. Flip channels. Nothing but news, Christmas shows and commercials. Check the answering machine. Two messages, one from the cleaners, the other from the dentist's office.<br />
<br />
bubble bath<br />
spiking the water<br />
with apple cider scent<br />
<br />
Wrap myself in flannel pajamas. Take the catalogs and some chamomile tea to bed. The cat emerges from the closet and joins me on the bed.<br />
<br />
train whistle<br />
growing louder<br />
into the nightUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-62159199809486691142012-07-04T18:45:00.000-07:002012-07-04T18:45:15.247-07:00<br />
wheelbarrow<br />
filled with manure<br />
my mind is made up<br />
<br />
<br />
anniversary<br />
a spider web<br />
in the knittingUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-29596233821837057522012-01-01T17:23:00.001-08:002012-01-01T17:23:35.900-08:00hot summer day<br />
a bowl of picked berries<br />
without sugarUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-86077518282405205742012-01-01T17:16:00.001-08:002012-01-01T17:16:51.149-08:00No Further<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">She loathed four o'clock in the afternoon. It was the time of day when the sun sucked the ocean white. The slow-poke in front of her clearly didn't know how to drive judging from his speed-up slow-down tactics. His license plate said Arizona. Probably the first time seeing an ocean. She was anxious to get to her hotel, unpack, shove an armchair onto the balcony and think. She'd need to wear her dark glasses until the glare subsided and the ocean returned to itself. For millions of years the Pacific had known its boundaries, and that was more than what she could say about herself.</span><br />
<i><br />
</i></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">a peacock cries</div><div class="MsoNormal">at the edge of a field</div><div class="MsoNormal">misty morning</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-80496153879649200072012-01-01T17:11:00.003-08:002012-01-01T17:13:34.332-08:00Fade Out<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As a child, my grandmother's four dogs and my younger sister inhabited my make-believe world of adventures. My grandmother's enormous house in the mountains of Argentina was backdrop for the plays I starred in. Sometimes I'd let my sister have a part, as long as it was a supporting role. We rode bamboo steeds through the pepper trees, chasing bandits, stopping often for black figs or a fistful of grapes, and continued on. It didn't take much to invent a story and act it out. It was especially dramatic when the thunderstorms came and rumbled through the house, or when flashes of lightning lit up the sky and killed trees. That's when I'd let my sister have top billing and the dogs and I hid backstage in the closet.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>shooting star<br />
yesterday's idea <br />
vanishesUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-8294342318342895842012-01-01T17:11:00.001-08:002012-01-01T17:14:17.164-08:00A New GenerationI fled the house when I was eighteen. Like Moses with Pharaoh, it took several acts of God for my father to let me go. Eventually he succumbed as long as I promised not to disgrace the family. I moved into a small home in a cobblestone street neighborhood. A flower market flanked it on one side with a cemetery in the back. During the day it was noisy and full of mourners. At night, it was so quiet I could hear the stars come out.<br />
<br />
childhood memories<br />
shrinking<br />
a half moonUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-65835697335703298392012-01-01T17:07:00.001-08:002012-01-01T17:07:31.580-08:00once too many<br />
tadpoles about<br />
her eyesUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-66872912185714539392011-07-23T17:46:00.001-07:002011-07-23T17:46:31.340-07:00the therapist says nothing<br />
I haven't told myself -<br />
rainless cloudsUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-42395418722581185692011-07-23T17:44:00.000-07:002011-07-23T17:45:03.853-07:00OutfoxedRed squirrels have been part of my life since the first day I moved into the house. Every morning they race across the roof and bounce into the trees, chattering and chasing each other. Every so often they freeze upside down on a tree trunk, tails flicking, nostrils twitching, eyeing me as I watch them cavort from one of the garden to the other.<br />
<br />
One day I hung a bird feeder from one of the trees. The squirrels chattered for joy and raced across my rood more than once. The friskiest one walked the length of the branch, hung from it by his hind legs, stretched himself out as far as he could, grabbed the feeder and brought it close to scoop seed into his waiting mouth. The next day I came home with a metal pole with an extension arm and planted it in the middle of the garden away from everything that squirrels could climb. It stood there like the forbidden tree in the Garden of Eden. No sooner had I hung the feeder than the squirrels found their way up, reached the feeder, shook it hard, watched the seeds scatter to the ground, and then jumped down eagerly to feed. Refusing to be defeated, I greased the pole with vegetable oil. Now the squirrels strain their way to the top, red bellies glistening in the sun, their brown eyes fixed on me as they slide down the pole like firefighters.<br />
<br />
broken promise<br />
a magnolia bloom thuds<br />
onto the groundUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-30990158695072327512011-03-16T11:02:00.001-07:002011-05-21T09:09:18.836-07:00haiku3rejection -<br />
a bruised apple rolls<br />
off the shelf<br />
<br />
<br />
Buenos Aires tango<br />
at the end of an alley<br />
the Big Dipper <br />
<br />
<br />
sultry evening<br />
the moon's tide<br />
pulls me in<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="haiku"> his oil paintings<br />
so unlike mine—<br />
passion fruit</div><div class="haiku"><br />
</div><div class="haiku"><br />
</div><div class="haiku">old pier<br />
boats in the marina<br />
moaning</div><div class="haiku"><br />
</div><div class="haiku"><br />
</div><div class="haiku"> carrying on<br />
as if nothing had happened<br />
dogwood in bloom </div><div class="haiku"></div><div class="haiku"></div><div class="haiku"></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-73307411524918300542011-03-16T11:00:00.001-07:002011-03-16T11:03:30.935-07:00Exercisetai chi<br />
slicing the morning mist<br />
in quartersUnknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-44123828464188035972011-03-16T10:59:00.000-07:002011-03-16T10:59:03.957-07:00I Hear Her Say<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">My father, sister and I board a fishing boat to take us out to sea. I am holding my mother’s remains in a wooden urn. I am the one tapped to do the deed. When we are far enough out, I walk to the back of the boat. The driver slows down and then cuts the engine. I pull out mother-in-a-bag. I begin to pour. Just then the breeze kicks up and throws her ashes back in my face<i>. Not so fast, sweetie!</i> I gasp. I am covered in my mother. I cough. I spit. I move fast. I finish the job. In a dramatic gesture I toss the urn overboard. It bobs up and down on the waves like a turtle. Then it begins to sink. <i>Oh crap! I can’t swim</i>! </span><br />
<br />
journal entry<br />
finally <br />
the last word</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-3516893927954694372011-01-21T10:54:00.001-08:002011-01-21T10:54:52.798-08:00Stumps"My mother was born without toes,” my friend said. “As a child I didn’t think anything of it. I thought all mothers were the same. Then one day, I went to the beach with some friends and their families, and I was shocked. All the women had toes. So I thought girls grew into them as they got older, like breasts. Except all the girls had toes, too. That's my coming of age story."<br />
<div class="center"><br />
</div><div class="center"> ink dripping<br />
down the canvas<br />
bamboo forest</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-12260848859171678112011-01-21T10:53:00.000-08:002011-03-16T11:04:29.207-07:00ForeclosureEverybody needs money. The subway system is in the red. The non-profits are in the yellow. And I'm in the blue. You left me holding the bag of recyclables that you were meant to cash in on your way to work this morning, past the car dealership, the school and the bank where we have a joint account, which will need to be dissolved now, but not until we discuss with our lawyers who gets custody of the unanswered questions and who gets the explanations.<br />
<div class="center"><br />
</div><div class="center"> worn out marriage<br />
we blow out the light<br />
of a hundred candles</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-57943477491660881022011-01-21T10:52:00.001-08:002011-01-21T10:52:21.674-08:00Burst<div align="center"><br />
</div>When you are nine and the daughter of a British father and a Jewish mother from Buenos Aires, Argentina, and you’re afraid of people, and live in your own make-believe world, then moving to Mexico City can seem like a rude interruption to an otherwise idyllic life of denial.<br />
<div class="center"><br />
</div><div class="center"> snow on the tarmac<br />
tire marks all the way<br />
to customs</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-37151797237297723792011-01-13T06:34:00.000-08:002011-05-21T09:13:29.575-07:00senryu10get-well balloon<br />
losing air every day -<br />
the long journey home<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
chemotherapy<br />
drying in the dish rack<br />
her long-haired wig<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
afternoon break -<br />
a fused-glass artist pours<br />
honey in the tea<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
late night at the airport<br />
the shoe shine man<br />
polishes his own shoesUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-9342261220514385802010-12-21T09:29:00.000-08:002011-05-21T08:55:22.888-07:00Rengay7<b>Ash Wednesday</b><br />
<br />
by Marco Fraticelli<br />
and Carolyne Rohrig<br />
<br />
<br />
with the kindling<br />
I bring in<br />
dead wasps<br />
<br />
her remains<br />
still on the mantel<br />
<br />
Valentine's day<br />
a black and white movie<br />
on TV<br />
<br />
fish market<br />
wrapping the day's catch<br />
in yesterday's paper<br />
<br />
fingerprints<br />
on the Mother's Day card<br />
<br />
Ash Wednesday<br />
a smudge<br />
on the baby's foreheadUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-46912419524361158862010-12-21T09:23:00.000-08:002011-05-21T08:54:29.822-07:00Rengay6<b>Hanging on Every Word</b><br />
<br />
by Carolyne Rohrig<br />
and Carolyn Hall<br />
<br />
<br />
writer's block<br />
inside my favorite book<br />
Acapulco sand<br />
<br />
steamy romance<br />
two chapters upside down<br />
<br />
playground gossip<br />
a little boy hangs<br />
on every word<br />
<br />
tight Scrabble game -<br />
in her hand<br />
AAEIIOU<br />
<br />
rehearsing the eye chart<br />
before the doctor comes in<br />
<br />
home late again-<br />
she reads him<br />
the riot actUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-22696858842952358612010-12-21T09:18:00.000-08:002010-12-21T09:18:32.938-08:00Bird on the WingI walked into the kitchen and saw her sitting on the back of a chair picking at her bare breast. Her turquoise and yellow feathers had virtually disappeared except for the few that remained around her face and wings. Even her tail was short and stubby. Yet she was happy and quite willing to come onto my arm and continue her pitiful grooming. I asked her owner what trauma caused this and found out she suffered a terrible illness that normally kills macaws, but her life was spared. "I could write a book about all the miracles God did to spare this bird," she said as she came closer in her wheelchair.<br />
<br />
winter rain<br />
last year's pine needles spill<br />
from her umbrellaUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-62712502543170033792010-12-21T09:07:00.000-08:002011-05-21T08:54:48.911-07:00Haiku2field mice -<br />
the scarecrow's head<br />
drooping lower<br />
<br />
<br />
autumn chill -<br />
the silence<br />
of the bee hive<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
cloudy skies -<br />
different shades of shadow<br />
in the cauliflowerUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3861739814834425036.post-23440179014134945282010-12-21T08:52:00.000-08:002011-05-21T08:55:46.023-07:00Septenga1<b>Writer's Block</b><br />
<br />
by Marco Fraticelli<br />
and <i>Carolyne Rohrig</i><br />
<br />
<br />
writer's block<br />
snow<br />
on the tennis courts<br />
<br />
<i>morning headache -</i><br />
<i>four aspirin with a latte</i><br />
<br />
days<br />
measured<br />
in pink pills<br />
<br />
<i>her tongue the color</i><br />
<i>of the cotton candy</i><br />
<br />
the day after the play<br />
my girls<br />
still wearing make up<br />
<br />
<i>rain drops smudge</i><br />
<i>the morning paper</i><br />
<br />
doing report cards<br />
the scent of lilacs<br />
fills my classroomUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0