Haiku sequence for the Sturgeon moon

For Frank Tassone’s haikai challenge. Lots of moons.

supermoon1

in the shallows

of the sky clouds shoal

a beam of silver

 

in the half-light

between bright day and dark night

moon rises

 

caught in waving

tree fronds framing a sky pool

the moon

 

in a silver pool

of tree-kelp swims the moon

as sturgeon fish

Haiku sequence: Birds in a hot sky

A haiku (hopefully) sequence for the dverse prompt

 

blue

bold as brass echoes

with summer

 

swallows at sunset

flicker in elegant flight

winged evening dress

 

heat throbs

woodpecker-laughs while we bake

with tree envy

 

still hushed air

grasped in an iron fist

hot as a cat’s breath

 

too hot to sing

sparrowhawk ever ready

to pick a fight

Haiku sequence for the thunder moon

For Frank Tassone’s Thunder Moon challenge.

 

serene—riding

in unclouded silence—

thunder moon

 

summer speaks

silver and gold with thunder

in the moon’s voice

 

thunderstorms

nights rocked with rain lit day-bright

behind clouds—the moon

 

night storm

among the billows

the moon glows

 

look—not fireflies

about the moon not stars

lightning flickers

Haiku for midsummer

The white bird is an egret. We usually see them in flocks, but this solitary individual (weirdo maybe) was flying with a great flock of red kites. The kites were after the hot-blooded creatures disturbed by the mowing, the egret was after grasshoppers.

 

egret

 

beneath drying stalks

once gold

green ribs shine

 

waves of heat-shimmer

on the meadow break

with poplar-hiss

 

shade pools

dim as ocean depths where

bramble flowers wink

 

all these months

the thrush has sung dawn to dusk

through the dark days

 

light glitters now

damselfly-bright on the last

wave tip of spring

 

Haiku for the longest day

For Frank Tassone’s summer solstice prompt.

before mowing

the longest day

a day for mowing cutting

the year in half

 

all the golden stalks

the meadow

a battlefield

 

the gyre narrows

hawk objective probes beneath

the fallen grass

 

how did they know

before the engine’s rattle

that death was coming?

 

feather swarm glides

in untouching pattern

through the blue