Category Archives: haiku
A padlock helps to keep tools safe in a shed at Robert J. Moody Demonstration Garden, Yuma, Arizona.
Wind, relentless wind!
I’m rattled by the padlock
swinging to and fro.
Shadows line the porches of “Winsor Castle” at Pipe Spring National Monument, Fredonia, Arizona.
If you were to ask me, “Who do you think you are?” this is what I’d say: I started dancing when God said, “Turn on the lights!” I made music when the first corn grew in dusty places, and the weight of a single kernel was heavier than all of Moctezuma’s gold. I attended the wedding at Cana of Galilee where Jesus said, “Forget the cash bar. I’m turning this water into wine, and it’s free for everyone. Come and get it!” I fiddled all night for the guests as they drank wine, rolled joints, and danced. And in the early hours of the morning I saw how Jesus took that poor, bruised woman with the split lip, laid his hands on her head, and said, “Daughter, be healed.” And she was! So who do I think I am? Why do you even ask? I think you know.
I can’t remember
the last time I quenched my thirst
from a mountain stream.
More The Whirligig #271
More Writers’ Pantry #25 at Poets and Storytellers United
A labyrinth in Phoenix, Arizona attracts many truth seekers.
A blush spreads across the sky at day’s end in Anza-Borrego Desert State Park, Southern California.
A huge stone nestles in the shade of a pine tree at the Japanese Friendship Garden, Phoenix, Arizona.
It takes tons of discipline just to be a stone,
Sitting in the sun and rain, sitting all alone,
Sitting there ignored and shunned as the years roll by.
Don’t you wish you were a stone? “No, I don’t, not I.”
~~~ ## ~~ ## ~~
When the old stone sings,
even crows in the pine tree
stop wagging their tongues.
Rhyming poem, haiku, and photo © by Magical Mystical Teacher
More SkyWatch Friday
More Haiku My Heart at Recuerda Mi Corazon
More Weekly Scribblings #22 at Poets and Storytellers United
This is my morning ritual, taught to me by the elders—women I met on holy ground. Turning to the east, I place a poem on my tongue, as though it were a communion wafer. Like the wafer melting in a faithful person’s mouth, I know the poem on my tongue will die if I do not sing it aloud, whether anybody hears it or not. So I sing: “Let everything that has breath praise the Lord.” Five times I sing the ancient words. And after the fifth time I laugh, for things all round me have joined the song: chickadees and caterpillars; butterflies and blacksnakes; mosquitos, mergansers, and marigolds. Everything with breath is praising the Lord. And the song is glorious.
the old stone Buddha’s broad lap
now holds an ocean.
More The Whirligig #268
More Writers’ Pantry #22 at Poets and Storytellers United
An orange tree stands in need of pruning in a Phoenix, Arizona backyard.
Maple, poplar, oak—
the names of my forest friends
linger on my tongue.
Women keep weeping
because roots of war grow deep,
and church bells go mute.
In the plum tree’s shade
my skinny little daughter
rubs two shiny coins.
Mother Earth, sounding
oddly like my own mother,
says, “Mend your ways, child.”
More The Whirligig #267
More Writers’ Pantry #21 at Poets and Storytellers United