Fly me to the moon…haiku for the season

moon2

Full Moon of the Winter Solstice (c) 2010 Martin Liebermann

 

As I post this, it is the morning of the winter solstice of 2015. Where I live in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, the winter solstice officially happens tonight at 11:49 pm, EST. Wherever YOU are, it will happen at a different hour or perhaps the same. Readers of this blog come from all over the world–one of the joys in blogging is seeing the list of countries of readers–and I love imagining the moon going through its magical phases for each of you. Tonight, the solstice. Later this week, a full moon. What more could we want?

 

 

 

These are some of my earliest haiku:

 

WINTER MOON HAIKU

First published on Poets Online (c) Mary Kendall

Later used as lyrics in “Winter Moon” by Paul Carey, a piece for women’s chorus in (c) 2011.

 

night snow
boughs dreaming
of first blossoms

 

Fog filled woods~
even the winter moon
has lost its way

 

a winter walk
footprints
tell no tales

 

the blue moon
silently closes the door
upon the year

 

 

One Snow Haiku

Snowfall by Debbie Suggs

Snowfall by Debbie Nemer Suggs

 

Swiftly falling snow

Our footprints disappear ~

Were we ever there?

 

snow symbol

I would like to thank my dear friend, Debbie Suggs, for the use of her beautiful snowfall photograph (c) 2015.  Debbie and I wrote and published a book, A Giving Garden, in 2009. Her beautiful photographs have always inspired me.

Ginger Tea

steaming tea pot

1.

curls of steam
a pot of ginger tea
fragrant this night

2.

silent crow …
holding tight in
winter wind

Crow on a Willow Branch, Japanese woodprint, Library of Congress woodprint

Crow on a Willow Branch, Japanese woodprint,    Library of Congress

Due North: A Winter Poem

Due North © 2014 by Isotell

Due North © 2014 by Iosatel

There are nights in the winter
once the leaves have fallen away,
when sometimes I wake in the dark,
hearing the distant, plaintive sound

of a single train a few miles away
as it crosses over a country road
or maybe it’s to warn off deer
that pause too long on the track.

The train travels due north,
and in the blackness of the night
the train’s dark sounding
brings back fragmented images
of my childhood life up north.

North, where winter’s silver skies
are layered in clouds most
of the year, and where snow
begins to fall early and deep.

North, where my family lived
in the rust belt of Lake Erie,
where strong winds raced across
the lake with bone-chilling cold.

The lake effect meant snowstorms
that went on for hours, even days
on end. Times when all of us gathered
together happily, knowing school
would be cancelled the next day.
Night was peaceful back then.

In the morning, we’d make our
way through the thigh high snow
and help shovel the walk, leaving
tall tunnels of snow on either side.

Our boots would crunch on frozen
snow, fingers painfully cold, but
that never stopped us from a snowball
fight or playing king of the mountain,
or sledding, tumbling, rolling in snow,

or making lovely snow angels
all over the yard. Those were the
carefree days of childhood, when
we didn’t worry about time or the
future or much of anything.

And for a while the thick snow
continued to fall, covering the tracks
of cars, birds and anything else
that dared to wander outside
on those interminable winter days.

Now, no longer in the north,
I lie in bed remembering such
simple times, times of being together
as we coasted down the snow hills,
all six of us tucked in tightly together

until halfway down when the toboggan
shifted and just after the pull to the left,
we capsized, all of us scattered down the hill,
laughter ringing out so loud as we fell,
each of us ready to give it a go again.

Tobagganing in the Snow

Tobagganing in the Snow

My thanks to the photographer, Iosatel, for use of the photograph, Due North, which appeared on his blog, The Obvious and the Hidden, 03/11/2014

Back to Edinburgh

Back to Edinburgh
 Here is my reading of the poem, Back to Edinburgh:
 

 

 Back to Edinburgh

We walk through the hidden streets of this city,
The second day of spring and the wind gusts hard.
People stop and wince, cupping their ears for warmth.
The news said blustery winds up to 25 mph,
And
it feels as if we might tumble down the street.

Looking for simple woolen hats to pull down
Over our frigid heads, we stop at a Royal Mile shop. 

I select gray, and you opt for black. I am grateful
That your good felt hat is safe back at the hotel.

The street is so rich in history that it feels as if
It could reach out and grab us by the arms,
Pulling us down a small wynd or narrow close
That has
 a story to share,

And in the late afternoon gloaming,
We might be wind swept and turned around
Into some other time.

It could happen you know.