Clair de lune…or Black Dog

Night birds   sing   Clair de lune

from  a slender branch where the solemn moon

casts shy beams unsure if it should seek her out.

It’s light plays hide and seek in the crowns of  trees

skipping from leaves to grassy weeds where

wildflowers close their porticoes to hummingbirds

dipping in and out then flitting off into the night.

A  spectator view of  collapsing clouds darken

to deeper shades of sighs and an old black dog

on silent paws lies down beside her.



I think of haiku as evocative snapshots constructed of words: the flash photography of literature, transcendent images, meditations.  I have received a copy of  “Haiku Poems”,  the work of AshiAkira.  Most of us know him as  a master of haiku poetry. This  work of art is among the most beautiful I have read.  So lovely, I believe it would receive a well deserved nod of admiration from the the renown Basho, haiku poet of the Edo period in Japan, were he fortunate to be around to enjoy it.   Thank you so much Ashi,  your  book will remain  one of  the  most treasured among my books of poetry.


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In Haiku Poems, author AshiAkira shares a collection of nearly five hundred haiku poems written in English retaining  the beauty of the original Japanese form.  As a poet and admirer of the art of haiku, I highly recommend adding this gem of poetry to your collection.

Find this  beautiful book here:

it wasn’t meant to be that way

She  hesitates to call  herself

human these days.

That  stone bruise of loss,

the lingering sting of reality

filleted by the bludgeon

of love and hate

not the same way or on the

same day.

Inconsistency is the surest way

to weaken the bark

wrench the roots

slowly wither beneath the boot

of accusations  and the

never-ending needs of ego.





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Summer with Burroughs

Remember the

summer we were

obsessed with


Anything familiar,

like the sound of

far off thunder

close enough to subdue

the mad-paced hours.

Something  inciting,

like the  strike of


the odor of combustion

ready to ignite.

Everything electric

that made us come alive.

Our hearts caught between

whale song and sigh,

spontaneous thunder

with intermittent quiet,

sporadic as a summer storm.



Summer with Burroughs


Leonid Afremov  “Rains Rustle”





In secluded thought you are standing

on a bridge wearing faded jeans.

A jacket of hunter green hangs loosely over

a sweat shirt that reads “Universität Ludwig”.

A paper bag is in your hand and

your eyes are glazed over,

going to or coming from a trip.

You don’t bother with  explanations.

Your memory stacks in layers like bone and skin.

Words drip like raindrops between

our open mouth kisses.

I keep the memories, nothing is left behind,

they stream through my mind

dripping from my eyes.


At It’s Finest

We were drama at its best,

witty, facetious,  ironic,

conduct spiraling downward.

Like Taylor and Burton,

you were  the strongest

if not the most temperate

while I fortified my defenses 

behind walls of retreat.

We begged each others assurance,

how pathetic we were.

What made us think we were in control?


Indulging Conjecture

Along  the  sea

pink sand pulls away

from a glistening shore,

melting fondant in the

sticky heat.

Minute  ecosystems inhabit

tiny  grottoes in the  tide pools

of wet sand.

Some days I stroll the coast alone,

indulging realms of lovers

where there is no logic but

a crushing ache I hold to my breast,

a carapace between a heart and the

mountains where I left you.

Allow me to come undone,

melt beneath the  weight of tender

hands on eggshell,

my sigh a gentle quake upon your

unshaven cheek.

Let me   drown in the river of

your impossible eyes where there

is no threat of war…hard silence

or the burden of forgiveness.