haiku7

beach house -
unlocking the gate
to the ocean


                                                      ginko
                                                      pelicans skim the waves
                                                      in groups of 5-7-5


in and out
of the haiku lesson -
the fragrance of the lilies

haiku6

sweltering heat
the ice popping
in the Kool-Aid


                                           raking the Zen garden
                                           at the beach house


vineyard verandah -
we sit listening
to the grapes grow


                                           virgin winter
                                           she wears white
                                           to bed


she draws violets
with purple pencils
in between her toes


                                            moss
                                            on redwood trunks -
                                            my son's new beard

haiku5

petals
of the red poppy
rip in the wind


                                                      surgery center
                                                      leaving parts of me behind


open window
the moon's reflection
in the toilet bowl


                                                      tucked deep
                                                      in lingerie
                                                      a lavender sachet


sipping rose wine
in the bubble bath
a misty moon

haiku4

cobwebs
in the corners
of his eyes


                                              oak barrel
                                              sweet peas spilling
                                              into the bar


jazz music
moth shadows dance
on the living room wall


                                               jogging at dusk
                                               around the neighborhood
                                               the smell of garlic

Cider Scent

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.

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.

across the street
the bougainvillea flashes
on and off

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.

season's greetings
from the mortgage company

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.

bubble bath
spiking the water
with apple cider scent

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.

train whistle
growing louder
into the night

wheelbarrow
filled with manure
my mind is made up


                                           anniversary
                                           a spider web
                                           in the knitting

hot summer day
a bowl of picked berries
without sugar

No Further

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.

a peacock cries

at the edge of a field

misty morning

Fade Out

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.

shooting star
yesterday's idea
vanishes

A New Generation

I 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.

childhood memories
shrinking
a half moon

once too many
tadpoles about
her eyes

the therapist says nothing
I haven't told myself -
rainless clouds

Outfoxed

Red 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.

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.

                                  broken promise
                                  a magnolia bloom thuds
                                  onto the ground

haiku3

rejection -
a bruised apple rolls
off the shelf


                                     Buenos Aires tango
                                     at the end of an alley
                                     the Big Dipper


sultry evening
the moon's tide
pulls me in

                                     his oil paintings
                                     so unlike mine—
                                     passion fruit

old pier
boats in the marina
moaning

                                     carrying on
                                     as if nothing had happened
                                     dogwood in bloom

Exercise

tai chi
slicing the morning mist
in quarters

I Hear Her Say

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. Not so fast, sweetie! 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. Oh crap! I can’t swim!

journal entry
finally
the last word

Stumps

"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."

                                     ink dripping
                                     down the canvas
                                     bamboo forest

Foreclosure

Everybody 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.

                                            worn out marriage
                                            we blow out the light
                                            of a hundred candles

Burst

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.

                                                  snow on the tarmac
                                                  tire marks all the way
                                                  to customs

senryu10

get-well balloon
losing air every day -
the long journey home



                                              chemotherapy
                                              drying in the dish rack
                                              her long-haired wig



afternoon break -
a fused-glass artist pours
honey in the tea



                                             late night at the airport
                                             the shoe shine man
                                             polishes his own shoes