Three Haiku

Writers on an oaky hill
Wind sweeps birdsong by
Tiny spider reads the page

© Tuula Rebhahn 2016

Jesus, Buddha, Trees: A Toast

The Tunnel*
Directly below us, there’s a tunnel full of alphabets and symbols. It starts right under the house and runs into the neighbor’s property, only of course they can’t see it, being underground. Only we in the house know about it; we have to be careful what we bring out.

We go down at night, bring our headlamps and cheese sandwiches in case we get stuck. The tunnel holds glittery promise: barrels of poetry, buckets of thought. We keep going. There must be something more, a new way of spelling the word love…

Copyright Miles Frode, 2018

Words in an Envelope

I have a long-distance relationship with an artist.

He sends me postcards painted on, collaged, bits of thread hanging off, sometimes some words etched in.

I return amateur drawings, bits of found art, and — most recently — words.

I don’t know why I sent a list of words. At the moment it was all the creativity I could summon. Whatever was running through me did not want to make sense. The words hung in the air and did not piece themselves together. So I shoved them in the envelope with Miles’ address on it…

Learning to Love ______

I. Jab, Right Hook This is a poem: Be unafraid. It will travel like prose, because life is hard enough, and punctuation makes the word medicine go down. Maybe you are in the bathroom — I won’t say doing what — or making a cup of tea. Now that you’re here, let’s wander: To the…

Being in a dry country

When you come to a dry place, stop. Listen. There is water in it. The world is big and lonely, except where water flows. In the growing serious, I have become light as air. Desert plants twiddle their fingers at me. The highway chuckles. Solitude is a condition of the body, loneliness is an affliction…

May, Hyatt Lake, Free

Before sitting down to write the prisoner I relieve myself at the edge of the tree line and just as other campers walk down to greet the water I rise to catch my own, to remember I am free but not alone I labor over a finicky stove then clutch my cup of coffee, precious…