Posted by: Bruce Proctor | June 30, 2016

Earlier haiku re-posted, up to Nov 2014, with some changes

My earlier haiku posts seem to have disappeared, so here they are again.

Also, because haiku are small, it’s very tempting each time I see them, to tinker with them again if they don’t seem quite right. I haven’t kept good track of all the changes, so I don’t know exactly where all of them are. Sometimes they’re tiny: an apostrophe, a syllable. Sometimes they’re a whole recasting.

August 2014

A single man in
a passenger-side seat sees
a different world.

Four kayaks resting
in the lee side of the point
gather their resolve.

It leaps from the bay,
flops, wriggles, re-enters
with a great SPLASH!

All the sails out there
are white; one by one they now
emerge in sunlight.

Whispering treetops
remind me of feathers
brushing together.

Like toothache,
in the silence before dawn,
a boat motor throbs.

Waves in great masses,
with their manes tossing wildly,
galloping toward shore.

The sailboat race:
interweaving back and forth,
a stately ballet.

A quarter mile off,
from across the silent bay–
their conversation.

I see so many
water textures. What more in
them do sailors see?

September 2014

Heron wings skimming
the surface of the water
never quite touch it.

On top of water
ducks are birds; under it they
resume their fish life.

When my friend Bob talks
of his flower gardening,
he becomes a poet.

Waxing loquacious,
my gardener friend Bob becomes
an epic poet.

After Labor Day
The sun is too hot,
the shade too cold; sunlit waves
are shivering too.

Sun-speckled waves,
streaming west, so want to be
the starry night sky!

The black loon too is
almost lost in the dazzle
of sun-speckled waves.

The sailboats are all
almost gone; lobster buoys
still dot the water.

From around the Point
without the slightest warning
slides a galleon.

Every six hours
the land rises; the next six
it all falls again.

I often feel that
this is an unlikely day
for a good haiku.

In an autumn breeze
falling leaves and butterflies
sometimes get confused.

Vast pre-dawn silence
of the bay, filled far and wide
by one small boat motor.

Like a hummingbird,
a lobster boat darts from
buoy to buoy.

In ones and twos
sparrows playfully, deftly,
flit through the bushes.

With hardly a glance
at human beings, nature goes
about her business.

October 2014

White head, orange beak,
perched atop the highest pine,
visible for miles.

Under the shadow
of a circling osprey’s wings
little fishes tremble.

Reading haiku
all of us can feel that
we are the expert.

In a brisk breeze
two sailboats side by side:
lovers or fighters?

White gulls wheel and dip
in playful freedom over
straining, white-sailed boats.

Geese honking tonight:
are they just practicing or
are they on their way?

Gulls wheel above them
like the spirits of sailboats
joyfully set free.

In the October wind
oak leaves are fledglings,
almost ready to fly.

Today’s first fall leaves
on the deck seem to have
lost their bearings.

“What do you
think of haiku?”:
“Not much.”

A wave from Mike
in his dinghy, and the gap
between us is gone.

Far, scruffy like fur;
near, the water’s like boiling silver:
October wind.

Often, the next day,
yesterday’s inspiration seems
a little bit less.

October wind:
all the leaves, all the waves
are shivering.

Lightning at night:
flashes of a familiar,
unfamiliar world.

Now that I’m petting
her doggy rival instead,
the cat is purring.

Ducks never tell us
they are gone–for weeks now
I am still looking.

As leaves keep falling,
I see ever more deeply
into winter woods.

Days of autumn rain–
the leaves still hanging on look
sodden and depressed.

Out on the point
sunset fills the whole sky,
its reflection, the rest.

 

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