United Kingdom

  • I never understood the change in name; the highway to my hometown ‘upgraded’ to the A47 for a few miles. Traffic signs have been modified though the potholes remain unfilled.

    new road
    behind the wheel
    old thoughts

  • scorched field not a blade in sight

                       THF: A Sense of Place, 19th Sep. 2018

  • war zone
    dark consequences
    of poison gas

     

    garden bonfire
    the scent of autumn
    in my hair

     

    beneath the hedge
    under a primrose
    a slug

     

    wild garlic
    scents the woodland path
    dinnertime

     

    midnight chimes—
    snow erases
    yesterday's footprints

    (in collaboration with Suraja M Roychowdhury)

     

     

    old year departs
    on a tide of trouble—
    Brexit rings in

     

  • for dad
    the smaller cairn
    on the summit

    Frogpond #39.3

  • empty tomb
    the footprints of those
    who came before


  • on the window a housefly dreaming of dirt

     

    bullet points counting on fingers and thumbs

     

    muzak killing time

     

    she talks on and on about the weather the beat of central heating in the background

     

  • dull fish eye on ice

     

    wasp in circles every orifice

     

    where the light can't reach the mandrill's rear

     

    carefully removing the mackerel's backbone after death

     

    today’s tablets
    the Thirty-Six Views
    of Mount Fuji

  • Japanese garden my mother clings onto my arm

    Blithe Spirit #17/4 (Dec-07), Failed Haiku #31 (Jul-18) and Prune Juice #25 (Jul-18).

  • reading poetry
    all that white space
    in the clouds

     

    funeral
    the cries of polished shoes
    on polished linoleum

     

    April morning
    in the dream
    I had a daughter


  • night train
    the brief lives of others
    come and gone


    dark room
    trapped in the camera
    the five lost haiku


    back home
    the reassuring rumble
    of the kettle

     

  • evening breeze
    winding through war graves
    the scent of mown grass

    The Heron's Nest, Volume XIX, Number 2, June 2017

  • cheeky monkey fist not on your nelly

     

    leap second the further sound of water

  • Christmas pudding
    flambéed to oblivion
    the archangel’s share

     


    soft hair
    for information loss
    a conditioner

     

  • Beep, beep, beep … oh, what now?! Is it time already? Surely she can’t be in labour now. It’s been just under two hours.

    Beep, beep, beep … the beeper continues its disturbing melody.
    It’s so peaceful and quiet under the linden tree and the sweet nostalgic aroma of the slightly shrunk blossoms evokes almost a Zen like state of mind. Not urgency. Definitely not that!
    Beep, beep, beep …!!!

    baby’s first cry
    a silence in between
    the angel wings' flutter

    Count to 10 in reverse order. Ten, nine, eight … Why just 10? I can start from 100. I’m not tired. I’m so full of excitement, I’m having my baby, I can climb mountains, Everest even … What comes after eight? Her hands are so warm. They smell of linden blossoms …

     

  • misty walk
    a magpie
    shade of blue

    Time Haiku #48

  • cicada songs
    last vestiges of summer
    on YouTube

     

    autumnal sunset
    fifty shades
    of sorrow

     

    where two seas meet
    the broken V
    of wild geese

  •  

    sheeting rain the outstretched snail

     

    rippling through ripple after ripple sun on the stream

     

    still childless playtime in the park

     

     

  • filling our silence
    the heavy scent
    of lilies

    wild voices, vol 2: an anthology of short poetry & art by women
    (Edited by Caroline Skanne) wildflower poetry press 2018

  • nightfall
    the snow
    settling

     

    summer dusk
    reading by lamplight
    this moth and I

     

    sugar cubes
    the scent of horse
    in my hand

     

    the steady creak
    of the old garden fence
    honeysuckle breeze

     

    sudden rain
    strangers
    share the doorway

  • dUSt


    desert mathematician arms
    outstretched


    winter architect i buy his silence


    after the frog
    i dissect
    an earthquake