She breathes ever so silently
rising and falling
where fast begins and slow never ends
she breathes ever so fitfully
racing while she slumbers.

Breathe – it will make her live
where otherwise, she appears dead
and cold and buried beneath
cottony white weaving.

Ever so silent is she
who seems to be snugly fitting
who seems to see by listening.

Over Coffee

A poem over coffee
Has to be
Drawn out
By tired minds.

A coffee over poetry
Has to be
Lured and baited
Alluringly, to mix
Poetry over coffee.

It must be
Stretched thin
As taffy
As time.

So accordingly –
Coffee over poetry.

Rainy Haiku

Long trunks intertwine
to lift gentle canopies
of leaves and cool shade.

Light rain is crackling
spattering against the stone
where moss grows, silent.

The grey sky grumbles
but parts the clouds, so pale light
can hum in the air.

Flute Song

Nowadays plans filter through
The fingers, trickling water
Into a lap of grass,
Quieting the thoughts
With fluidity, with change,
Snaking away into the hills.

A flock of sheep disperses
Like fickle clouds,
Seasons, and blossoms floating
And a dear stranger
Between blades of grass
Bluish shadow hovering,
Fades inwards and away.

The Smattering of Care

Days bleed into nights
bleed into days
and the ritual of awakening
still remains
like the gentle moon
in a cloudless sky.

What remains is the pattern
the cluster of condensation:
fluffy, dappled purple in the air
and the pattering of rain
and the smattering of care
— light though it is.

It must remain
and return
again and again,
as blue nights stream away
to reveal another day.

Mental Images

Waking blooms from trees
on the fringe of a blue sea
which slumbers in foam.

Snowy mountain caps
Stand among white fluffy clouds
Blotting out sunlight.

Stars flit in and out
of the wide night sky view, while
fireflies rise up.

The Clouds

Clouds – cupping the landscape from above
like gentle hands,
soft spreads of cottony light
and dollops of complementary shades
lavender on purple, rose on red:
dappled droplets of colour drop.
Artful, in a way human hands are not.
They curl in wisps over us now –
the Clouds.

Fantasy Haiku III

A flute sounds at dawn;
spirits rise from gentle streams
in babbling froth.

Rivers run down rock
to crash and spill over beds
of slumbering shells.

An afternoon sky
pulls shapely shadows from trees,
from winding towers.

Sunset-sea swoons on
a crust of dark rocks, as heads
retreat beneath waves.

Pale mist is veiling
the fibrous pines, where the queen
of fae strolls, hooded.