.....*.....

VOLUME VI

SWEEPING OUT HAIKU

A COLLECTION OF HAIKU: 
AN EXPERIENTIAL JOURNEY THROUGH THE YEAR
AND AN EXPLORATION OF THE AUSTRALIAN LANDSCAPE

N.K.Tointon, 1991

.....*.....

.....*.....

This Volume 
Is Dedicated To 
Yvonne,
Who Patiently Read 
And Critically Appreciated
Previous Haiku,
And Tony,
Who Patiently Allowed
Me To Write The Same;
To Both
I Extend My 
Gratefulness.

.....*.....

INDEX

ii		Foreword: In The Form Of A Fore-Warning

iv		Preface: Interpretation As A Form Of Translation
			(Refer to Homepage 10)
xiv		Essay Introduction: Haiku As A Form Of Poetry
			(Refer to Homepage 10)

.....*.....

1		Winter

3		Spring

5		Summer

7		Autumn

9		Plum Blossom

11		Night-Time

13		Holidays

14		Tracks Through The Bush

16		In The Capital

18		In The Country

20		Erotic Haiku

22		Illusions

25		Friendship And Death

.....*.....

30		Supplement

.....*.....

				Leapt into the pond,
				one frog after another,
				now wet, followed suit.

.....*.....

Foreword: In The Form Of A Fore-Warning

	Most of these haiku were written over the space of a week and a certain number may fail to be, or appear to be, haiku in their own right needing refinement, an enrichment of dialectical and harmonic structure, or, outright deletion and rejection. However, the collection as a whole has some unity about it if only for the fact that they were written altogether and therein iterate and reiterate certain philosophical and poetical themes that were then preoccupying myself before and during that period of time. Much of this material enters the two essays that prefix this collection. 
	The warning attached to this volume is two-pronged. First, as an apology, to suggest that although a number of haiku stand on their own, and need a period of reflection and enjoyment to deliver something of the meaning encoded within their twenty-one syllables, other haiku are more straight forward in their design or designs. Hence the reader should use their intuition on an individual basis to determine which haiku have a greater richness of dialectical content and not merely a condensation of evocative memory, an interesting philosophical idea, an exercise on a poetical theme, etc. Second, as a warning to the less philosophical person that the following two essays are of a very technical nature and will in time form chapters in a third book of phenomenological papers to be entitled A Phenomenological Investigation Into The Hermeneutical Creation And Treatment Of Value. Although of a technical nature, announcing themes from phenomenological and hermeneutical backgrounds, I have tried, however, to make this subject both more palatable, and, related to an appreciation of this collection of haiku. 
	Therefore, I make the following two suggestions. First, that the reader avoid the following two essays if their interest is only a reading of these poems. Second, that they bypass those haiku that either don't release some profit greater than the interest invested in the same, or, appear to be relatively transparent to our attempts to interpret them. On the whole, however, most of these haiku are not immediately transparent and do need some degree of attention on our part to interpret the deeper point, or intentions, behind their creation. I therefore ask the reader to take my place if they would, in the re-birth of these poems and make of them their own progeny should they wish. 
	Finally, I would like to stress that most of these poems are not what they might seem on a first reading and that a number of subtexts have been provocatively introduced into their constitution with varying degrees of intersubjective recoverability. It is my hope, however, that the reader will find some enjoyment in this small collection both on an individual basis, and, collectively (and convocationally) with respect to the manner they seem to be connected and related to each other through a series of themes or contrasts, and, as a total collection. 
	 May the reader find some enjoyment in these small beads of sweat? I now proffer these fragile thoughts to your protection and hope that they engage a profitable degree of interest above and beyond that, hopefully, not too wasted by the reader upon them? (19)

			Crystal beads of frost,
			far more precious than diamonds,
			praising the heavens.

	Thanking you for your interest in this collection,

			    Noël Tointon, Sydney and Leura, 30/1/92.

WINTER (1-26)

Down the darkened street
all alone, hearing footsteps
echoing, mocking.

Bluff winds quickening,
in argument with the world,
now hear them howling.

The rain only stops
to catch its breath, gossiping
all day and all night.

Falling heavily
on the roof and silently
down the fibro walls.

In the pouring rain
the dripping tap is not heard
inside the kitchen.

Rain made me sleepy
only to be startled by
the hailing drum-roll.

Iced leaves defying
decay upon the pavement,
such treats trodden on.

Time for reflection,
in the heart of winter storms
moments of stillness.

My poor pussy cat,
her last bath was not needed
when it poured all week.

Flying wet and damp
how could the rain get colder
without sky freezing?

A shinning steel sky
like the surface of a pond
frozen and smiling.

Like Viking warr'ors
come winter clouds pillaging,
wind raping my hair.

My bare bald plum trees
in need of a good haircut,
should prune those sidelocks.

Like a wine barrel,
the smell of decaying soil,
the earth in ferment.

Find the pine shaking
its dying needles only 
in the bitter cold!

Pine trees imitate
the snowy mountains yonder
with an avalanche.

Pine trees in a row
like soldiers from far Europe
and treated the same.

The winter landscape,
one vast wedding, many guests,
confetti falling?

Real style discharging
its signature ev'rywhere.
What substance has frost?!

Crystal beads of frost,
for more precious than diamonds,
praising the heavens.

Dull drifting clouds now
cover the face of the moon
in a sheen of frost.

A reluctant sun
drying out a world just bathed
in a powdered snow.

The sunrise surprised
the winter night with showers
of brief fiery sparks.

It hasn't rained yet
but the rivers are rising
a little faster.

Angry clouds regret
the passing of winter sleet,
fading in showers.

Tidy up the house,
frozen mud remelting soon,
solar inspection.

	.....*.....

SPRING (27- 52)

Born from a promise
the first limp leaves of the year
spring forth into life.

Suddenly cannot
see out across the garden,
curtain foliage.

Returning friends meet,
by prior appointment, find
jonquils still smiling.

An armful of fl'wers?
Better a hint of jasmine.
One seated lady.

Those insects so small
leave each other's leftovers
behind in a cloud.

Pigeons in the loft,
shitting on infant Jesus,
still smiling beneath.

Smells of country grass
as neighbours outdo the next
mowing their fine lawns.

Remnant bush removed
except around a few homes
on backyard patches.

The day has the same
number of heart beats, only
now they seem quicker.

In the midst of spring
already one parched summer
with dry leaves of fall.

When next will it rain,
clouds simulating a storm,
falling sweat likewise?

The cockroach went through
the crack in the door before
I could unlock it.

Spring winds sweep the fields,
alas, changing direction;
just before the rain.

How ominously 
resounds the nearing thunder
demanding silence!

Like dead maiden's hair,
all green and thick; daffodils,
with gold ornaments.

All seasonings smell
but now too many I note
quickly loosing count.

Mobile caravans,
the snails venturing outdoors,
along garden paths.

Slowly, so slowly,
the snails return to the bush;
tossed into the ferns.

Wistful wisteria
looking dead burst into life;
smells of gunpowder?

The grass looked lifeless
beneath the green growth tow'ring
over the thatched roots.

Ant streams meandered
picking up in volume as
the white nest warmed up.

Jungle world with rules:
"I shall eat you today, you 
eat me tomorrow."

Dangerous garden!
Beware people who trample
and eat ev'rything!

My dream - build a pond;
the local frogs soon found it
and the waiting snakes.

The garden spirit
has now some servants sliding
through the tense ivy.

The water lilies;
bowls for diners or dinner,
waiting patiently?

	.....*.....

SUMMER (53-78)

Pretty butterflies
taking a fancy to me?
Just having a rest?

Beside waiting plums
the tree seems to loose it leaves,
flirting butterflies...

Picking the best plums,
like a connoisseur eating
their choice of fine art.

First a half sour one 
to wash the palate making 
ripe plums seem divine.

Never be ready,
you will be plucked like a plum
and returned to earth.

The new nectarine
thoughtfully withered ev'ry
second piece of fruit.

Big red nectarines
so close to the ground, playing
marbles in the wind.

Seated on the ground
beneath fruiting trees like an 
over ripened plum.

In my bowl of tea
see reflected coming storm,
savour first few drops.

Wary carp are coy,				(Carp known as Koi)
flirting beneath the lilies
with the watching cat.

After summer rain
the weather beaten ivy
claps a thousand hands.

Heavy with grass seed,
the stalks bend even lower
after fine drizzle.

And taking a bow
the celebrated tree-fern
ends the performance.

On humid ev'nings
the mosquitoes drink each drop
of glistening sweat.

Last month - cicadas,
in ev'ning choral relays
now frogs take over.

Poor bewildered snakes,
they do not know who's singing 
out for their supper!

Picnic by the pond,
coming from nowhere, unseen,
the grasshoppers croak.

The fat pussycat
sitting in the garden like
a pumpkin with fur.

Tinder dry, waiting
only for a single spark
to disperse these seeds.

Summer love affair
waiting for the fall, the cool
breezes coming soon.

Still moments before
the storm, whirling hurricanes
around the center.

Was caught unaware,
the light'ning making me drop 
the heavy salver.

The sudden thunder 
making me see more clearly
in the pitch darkness.

Seek shelter under
the near by tree, no rain yet,
hair standing on end.

The rain hammered down,
and then light'ning and thunder 
drove it in harder.

Grapes needing water,
sun and soil, perfect balance,
happily hanging.

	.....*.....

AUTUMN (79-104)

Seasons in fashion,
this year's autumn collection
practic’lly the same.

A fashion parade,
such variety on view,
outside David Jones.

See turning over
new leaves among the lilies
without getting wet.

Those worlds within worlds,
old gardens behind high walls,
seasons unfolding.

On the balcony,
watching over squawking twins,
stand two currawongs.   				(Australian crows)

Natives now refuse
to undress, colonials
only once a year.

Like life; coloured bright,
falling free, fading into 
an obscurity?

Leaf litter is loved
by the falling plums, cushioned,
bedded down and struck!?

Naughty, naughty plums;
you'ld have a forest planted 
out beneath each tree.

The autumnal leaves
grow even more beautiful 
before being dropped.

Eternal beauty
disrobing in public park,
stone statue bathing.

The gold, ruby red, 
agate brown and amber leaves
were once em'rald green.

And how coloured is 
that something that changes hue?
Piles of faded leaves?

How sad that the tree
is noticed when its shedding
its mantle of leaves.

How naked that tree,
standing alert before it
and looking through it.

The rustle of leaves
dampened by the rain, returned
to voice by the sun.

Good year's collection;
four rarely seen butterflies
added to mem'ry.

A little coolness 
chastens the mind, clarifies
the butterfly's life.

All these butterflies
look the same, but not to those
that seek such comp'ny.

Quickly they dispersed
when they saw me coming near,
leaving in a flap.

Flaming foliage.
burning desires, trees alight,
but soon extinguished.

The fire dies away,
courting couples rarely pass,
the old tramp cursing.

A quick game of golf,
the enthusiasts struggling
with their umbrellas.

Birds singing along
to the playing harpsichord 
on the record track.

The daphne sleeping?
Wee red and white beads counting
under green covers.

The fever subsides,
the patient has recovered,
will now sleep awhile.

	.....*.....

PLUM BLOSSOM (105-130)

Exploding nova;
from a thousand points of light
dies prunus blossom.

Without ceremony
blossom has its honey-moon
with the busy bee.

Moving in the wind
or disturbed by the rustling 
of teeming insects?

Wistful, hardly shy,
just waiting to be picked up,
a row of blossom.

Pale skinned beauty in
an inter-racial marriage
of the moment'ry.

Just quivering with 
anticipation, or, thrill
of visitation?

Soon a paper chase,
discarded tissues, blossoms
in bed with a cold.

Stripped naked after
being raped ten thousand times
without one complaint!

A net of branches
catching the floating blossom
on a sea of breeze.

Blossom undresses,
throws off its pink-white nightie,
self-fulfilling dreams.

A new set of clothes,
each year this yearly expense,
and worn only once.

Paper thin dresses
discarded on the litter
of last season's leaves.

Merely an excuse,
a time to party, take tea;
be ornamental?

How fruitless those trees
bred only for their flowers,
exult the useless?

Praise the blossom boughs,
these blooms are never traded
at the village fair.

The plums will be sold
but not their blossom mothers,
such priceless treasure.

Maid for the moment,
such harmony, eternal
presence in waiting.

The farmers wont ask
a price to view their blossom
if you admire them.

Such overt display
celebrates celibacy
only after dark?

Like great works of art
blossoms are traded for plums
and then taxed in kind.

First falling petals,
then plums, then seedlings, branches;
in transmigration?

Wrapped in fine paper 
the blossom presents itself
already opened.

A subtle presence,
each flower has little scent,
a promise of fruit.

Orchard is burning 
pure incense somewhere behind
the branches upwind.

Small specs of pollen
rounded off, under heavy
sentence of labour.

The smell of mushrooms...
replaced by the odour of
plums not yet eaten.

	.....*.....

NIGHT-TIME (131-156)

Upon the water,
watching the drifting of moon 
watching me drifting.

At night time find self
confronted by the darkness
of superstition.

By night the pale moon,
by day the bronzed sight of sun,
in between a match.

Through the tent lantern
casts off its light, blanketed
by the blackest fog.

Above mist a star
to show us the path back home,
our backs to the same.

Army tent ahead,
even the grass in the dark 
becomes a minefield.

People like fireflies,
imagine the view from space,
thus I rest my case.

The bright city lights
attracting the country moths
into the wee hours.
 
At the cinema
find flashing lights outdoing
the parading stars.

City half-veils night,
the curtains never quite drawn,
only the stars sleep.

Faded like plastic
covers on round table tops:
city by starlight.

Really romantic
the blood red moon high above
the glowing city?

Downtown after twelve
bathed in a pink neon haze
even moon parties.

In town a power failure
and the traffic had to feel
its way across town.

Standing in the bus
full of silent emptiness,
the last service home.

You have grounded me,
help me to fly; watching moon
sailing though the sky.

Sun behind the scenes,
the part time moon comes and goes,
always watched over?

Clear light of reason
contrasts emotional darkness,
sparks fly in between.

Quietly walk home,
a sudden rushing of wings,
disturbing fruit bats.

Past the moon waving
flies the fruit bat in consort
with its waiting man.

The frowning moon peers
down on this now fickle earth
who walked on its face.

Two moons we now have:
one for science - the other
inspiring romance.

The old man smiling,
lovers intently watching,
forever the same.

A fast month slipped by;
the moon eclipsed by dark cloud
creating quarters...

A restless night full
of ideas like lit fireflies
around this candle.

Memories of mice
conversing through wooden walls
while I try to sleep.

	.....*.....

HOLIDAYS (157-168)

Dandelion seeds
taking a long holiday 
when blown out to sea.

Change pictures around,
replace the sheets, a vase;
like a hotel room?

What is vacation
but a state of mind, a dream
changing perception?

The time to spring clean
but first that planned vacation,
shall think about it.

"The ultimate trip,"
rather not think about it,
just too close to home!

Those Greek restaurants
and Italian coffee shops
advertise travel?

Love that Asian food,
look for the exotic East
down in China Town.

Take tea, read a book 
and see the world in safety,
or, just watch tv.

In taking a seat
he sat down with a good book;
an armchair trav'ller.

From the bus tourists
look like fish trained in Dream World
viewing the public.

Flying is unreal,
one minute Redfern the next
an Arabian night.					(Or Knight)

Why must I travel
as I am still overseas?
Nowhere else but home!

	.....*.....

TRACKS THROUGH THE BUSH (169-194)

Tracks all through the bush,
all joining and dividing,
foxes and rabbits.

Waterfall was heard,
engraved on the map as such.
The sound of sunya.				  (Emptiness, Sanskrit)

The bush has been raped,
and the natives too; ourselves,
our children likewise!

On the cliff struggles
one blue gum, but more noble
stands an ancient grove.

Cathedral tree ferns,
umbrella upwards so far, 
imagine the rest!

Against the blue sky
rosellas on eucalypts				(Bright red parrots)
like stained glass windows.

Sacred rocks are felt,
mystic altars from the past
witness cave drawings.

Into the deep pool
see the eel-spirit wriggle 
past oblivious.

Moments of stillness
beside the falling waters,
list'ning to bird calls.

Alone, beside stream,
shattering all pretension
waratahs in fl'wer.		(With big bright red flowers)

The long rotten log
is now a living home for
fauna and flora.

The fallen tree gives 
me passage, across the creek
find one needed seat.

Miles inland find a
sandy shore beside a stream
replete with wavelets.

Gorge narrows steeply,
moving downstream find the mud
turning into rock.

Dream no person’s been 
here before, but, beaten by 
the blackberry bush!

In the humid shade 
imagine a thousand ferns 
fanning a cool breeze.

Amid the debris
find plastic pastel purple 
mushroom parasols.

A flash of colour
as the native birds visit
this strange creature `self.'

I am sure trees move,
they go on holidays too,
just taking their time.

Trees give the bush depth,
a sense of presence patterned
through one variety.

Perhaps no meeting
but the track through the bush says
you are not alone.

Simple trails divide
the bush into regions with 
snakes and those without!

Ev'ry creeper, twig 
or branch on the forest floor
seems to have presence.

Slowly over years
the bush looses its blandness,
regaining brilliance.

City eyes are blind;
seeing lampposts, tall towers,
narrow streets and seats.

Foresters prefer
those old forests to chop down, 
no paths through thickets!

	.….*....
IN THE CAPITAL (195-219)

Alas, capital
has only streets that are named,
all else is numbered?

Here beats the Empire;
a costly heart that spends more
than all the blood spilt.

This dealer worked hard,
loved money, went into debt
counting for others.

All along the road
the traders sell cars, dealers
selling dealerships.

Forested highways,
planted in the capital,
so user friendly.

People on the bus
only spoke to each other
after it broke down.

Monuments to see,
diminishing the people?
Ironic landscape.				(Or iconic landscape)

Political chairs
should be just as ornate as
the enthroned person.

Too heavy a crown
keeps rulers spending their time 
rising above us.

Always be gracious;
imagine the Queen waving
as the guardsmen pass.

Politicians speak
to the masses when the state's
having a break-down!

Puppets have no life
but the audience suspends
their belief in this.

Nothing can be done,
doing something will disrupt
the sure flow of things.

The farmer will plant,
the chef will prepare the meal
and the people dine.

The world is a stage,
its clouds control the lighting,
all actors as pawns.

Western tragedy;
the humble pawns promoted
past divinity.

The East faces dusk,
the West grasping only dawn,
naught versus nothing.				(Ends versus means)

Under the maples
autumn showers continue,
folding umbrellas.

Politicians come					(Big, migrating,
and go like those bogon moths.			   hairy moths)
The House on the hill.

Avenues crossing
the circular boulevards,
town squares seem misplaced.

The Empire survives
one more self-coronation,
on a show of hands.

Unclean hands dirty
the tap used to wash them with;
with hands, now washed clean?

Discern compromise
without being compromised.
Backroom manoeuvres.

Ambitions expand,
meet opportunities seen,
invade the landscape.

Have we forgotten,
rit'als demand sacrifice,
nothing lost - naught gained!

Some leafy hamlets,
in a collection gathered,
makes a town in name.

	.....*.....
IN THE COUNTRY (220-245)

Houses in gardens
having names that simulate
the rural landscape.

Those townships scattered
like rubbish along the road,
urban reflections.

Wound round together
like a strand of nat'ral pearls
one lived in village.

All living townships
wax and wane, but will soon die
with no beating heart.

Smoky chimney stacks
are the first to greet the dawn,
coal mines stir nearby.

No real countryside
without some hamlet nearby?
Over horizon...

Rarely meet farmers.
Only fences and gates tell
me that I trespass.

In bush - kangaroos,
in paddocks - find the cattle,
except during drought.

Farmers would go broke
if the banks sold their produce 
on road-side side-stalls.

Winter sheep weeping
in those empty fields mourning
the departed bush.

Swiftly from red dust,
after the longed for rain, moss
reconstituted.

Find beneath my feet
a vast miniature forest
stunted by cold winds.

Infinite treasure,
wandering across the fields
with outcrops of bush.

After the rabbits 
and foxes our ancestors
fell in love with home.

And the poor hedgehog,
did they leave him behind too,
those part-time Gypsies?!

New vistas of light,
images of images,
seeing sights unseen.

Spectacular cliffs
merely remind me once more
of this floating world.

Defy gravity
like a bird, thoughtless thinking
on the edge of dream.

Refreshing creek near
parched fields of corn; shady tree,
a hint of wild mint.

Whirlpools of silence,
sporting fish swimming around
very forgetful.

Why not hunt the fox
that stalks endangered wildlife,
two wrongs make a right?

The rock suns itself,
seeing me scurries away,
lizard seeking shade...

Land as investment,
but are banks interested
in depositing?

Possums in the parks,
black rats in the countryside;
balances the books?

The seasons keep time
more real than clocks and watches.
Hear how rooster crows!

Haze on horizon;
farmers working their fields, or,
the nearby city? 

	…..*…..

Erotic Haiku (246-271)

Impatient lovers
disappeared and harvested
a year's fond absence.

Smiling Chinese boy 
without sleeves makes me dream of 
that sleeping Emp'ror.

Her boyfriend was here,
sought a change, was told only
virgins sacrificed.

That body, that face,
those eyes, that voice, that sweet mouth,
that tongue and those teeth!

Enjoy the heavy 
waiting plum before it falls,
and self-seeds alone.

She enjoys dancing 
with those boys with loose trousers
who enjoyed likewise.

They went to the dance,
the evening whirled on past;
seated, holding hands.

Can there be better
than that first long kiss, alas,
shall have to find out?

He had a package
waiting for her but someone 
else opened it first.

Tasting the ripe peach
is always an easy task
if already stoned?

Ask her if she wants
some bananas? - the scout was
skinned alive, smiling!

Veiled woman unseen,
yet men of such habits flash
past like shy streakers.

Salads are best dressed,
too much or too bare blankets
the spice of the sauce.

Gifts are always wrapped,
give and take insulated,
timed rit'al in space.

Best not play with this, 
the soldier thought, might go off,
killing both of us!

The bearded woman
never shaved, for her efforts
seemed so much wiser.

What should be better
than tasting but the eating?
The having eaten!

Pregnant with silence
the thoughts of another soul 
divined without words.

Who thought the last thought,
that feeling of resonance
that encaptures us?

The perfect circle;
love makes the world go round, and,
love goes round the world.

Centering this world, 
is `I', entering this world
is `me' redefined.

Flowing horse's mane,
shines jet black in sheen, dancing
in a pony tail.

Dragon flies going
either way, make up your mind,
time to take a rest.

The breezes decide
which butterflies discover
that shared ecstasy.

The cool southern winds
catching the courting couple 
off guard, blown apart.

Dark glasses hide thoughts
that travel further afield,
suggest moonlit walks.

	.....*.....
ILLUSIONS (272-311)

Flowers in a vase
attracting a bumble bee,
pollinating ghosts.

When the fence came down
its fall perfectly mirrored
by the clinging vine.

Staring at itself
the cat before the mirror 
was only fooled once.

Fed pussy cat sits
in front of the gold fish pond
still fascinated.

On the flattened lawn
smaller worlds in collision
under bowling shoes.

Theologians and 
philosophers, forget their 
pieces of paper?!

Painted thoughts put down,
on paper imprinted, like
shadows of shadows.

Expect one thinker
to question, with two thinkers
expect two answers.

Sweeping out haiku
like droppings rolling out from
this used antique pen.

Or thoughts in contrast
di'lectically scattered 
in binary code.

Refining haiku,
shedding season, loosing place;
subtle emotion?

In the gallery
find paintings moving, shadows
of people passing.

Portraits of people
sitting behind the shoulder
of the paid artist.

A wonderful scroll,
on closer inspection find
the scene disappeared.

The creative soul
feinting the great illusion;
something from nothing.

The greatest treasure;
a painting of great merit,
entirely worthless.

Admired the gilt-frame
and noted the signature;
heard the fake screaming.

Ev'rything we do
is like a great work of art,
for public viewing.

Looking, standing back;
seeing the world through haiku
all neatly packaged.

Distilling moments
already past, could spirits
be preserved alive?

Recognizing friends;
meeting the artist in thought
over the cent'ries.

How heretical
shines the thinker's art burning
in the main libr'ry.

Bubbles on the stream;
illusions, realities?
I see no diff'rence!

When I wake my face 
in the glass is just the same, 
wonder who sees whom?

Shadows on the pond
dispatch the fish for cover,
what could be more real?

Between my shadow 
and me stands upon the sand
a trail of footprints.

Constant engagement
fills the day and fills the night,
divorcing pattern.

Find the falling snow
folding perfectly over
the shape of the rock.

The frozen lake melts
taking sky into its depths
just after the breeze.

The gold coins were dropped;
no value found in themselves,
locked in museum case?

The killer's shadow
caused the coup de grace, old man
died before his time?

The pond has surface,
murky depths and soaring sky;
a leaf falling through.

The murderer's glove
was left behind, on the scene
perfect pair of hands?

Echo echoing,
nothing is forever lost,
the same thrush nesting?

The world's like a dream,
a piece of theatre, actors
who are never paid?

Winking butterfly 
dreaming dreams of love, in rest
does it dream of play?

Such hollow laughter,
the roar of thunder after
the cracking whip-lash.

All action is signed,
our thoughts in material
imprinted as text?

Translucent but not 
opaque, thinking thoughts, watching 
people in the street.

	.....*.....
FRIENDSHIP AND DEATH (312-365)

A great happiness;
a few friendly words spoken,
not said, just implied.

The dying are full 
of life, the day is noticed
in the glow of dusk.

A little something,
home made, given in passing, 
some minutes well spent.

After swapping gifts
the wrappings carpet the floor
like eggshells just hatched.

Exquisite wrappings,
more class than the token gift.
Rit'ual concealment?

A good friend long dead,
it seems as if yesterday
I was still with him.

One fiery temper,
silenced, he died while smoking
and was cremated.

The fabric of life
had covered the corpse before
it cooled enshrouded.

Same bus'ness each day,
more or less, fun'ral cars trapped
in the traffic jam.

Service started late,
her last request went unheard,
fl'wers left behind.

The happ'est music
can echo even sadder.
Is the owl alone?

The great symphony
realized sounds unheard before
from the same old notes.

We left shaking hands;
better a kiss between friends
or a wistful look?

Friendship's like a key
that unlocks itself, a door
both open and shut.

A simple embrace
for half a minute said more
than I need to know.

One hand shake ended
our happy relationship;
death sealed the deathless.

Alas, old age has 
crept up upon me, now know 
more who have past on.

Such is this tension
that in meeting we must part,
indivisible.

See the future there
in the clouds as they deform,
thin, evaporate...

The clouds form and part,
yet rain never drains the sky.
Now a powder blue.

Into other arms
run the many streams before
that one last embrace.

The native tree died
a noble death, branch by branch,
knowing it must loose.

Taken in his prime
the young man fell like a tree
and the forest cried.

My one possession 
is death, shall cherish it well
to the very end.

When no longer climb
those steep mountains of my youth
let me then join them...

When no longer swim
in the sea, instead, let my
ashes float awhile...

Falling leaves ne'er die,			(Or Memories ne'er die)
fade away; let me leave before 
I am forgotten.

I woke up surprised
to find I had one more day
and made it my last.

Imagine one life,
multiplied and repeated;
make do, such is life!

There in the garden
the same fl'wers keep returning,
watered and weeded.

The old rose bush died,
only I see its absence, 
still feel its presence.

One floating tea leaf,
is it drinking I wonder?
Perfect company.

Like to make a fight,
others enjoy making up;
noisy birds next door?

See the cosmos in 
a bowl of soup; water, stock
sun ripened barley...

The whole world set out
on a rounded dish, inlaid
with gilt and paid for.					(Or guilt)

Become what you seek,
seek money - become spent, or,
seek life - become saved.

Seize well the moment
by letting it seize yourself;
floating now downstream.

It rained for some time
but then the grey clouds parted
and the day was seen.

Diff'rent opinions
can be accommodated
before the more great.

A ripening sun,
tomatoes likewise, in cans
now immortalized.

Under hanging moon,
never realize your essence,
the sweet peas were lynched.

Rows of vegetables
only deter the weeds from 
appearing likewise.

Give the weeds some rope,
in time they will hang themselves,
these highway robbers.

That lazy farmer 
had the fruit and vegetables
outgrowing the weeds.

Farming chemicals 
killed the soil, turned rivers green,
salt seasoned the crops!

A simple meal shared
between friends has a flavour
all its very own.

After the fun'ral
a place was set for the dead
person by mistake?

Those pagan angels
in the Christian cemet'ry
cannot be buried.

The furry spider
had already been eaten, 
falling from the plate.

Such sadness is this, 
no one friend to scratch your back
except body lice.

The barking of dogs,
disembodied disturbance,
meeting with strangers.

If you find the stars 
are your friends then the whole world 
will find you friendly.

Friendship in parcels,
brightly coloured rit'als, or,
things signed unspoken?

Revellers go home!?
Rats in the rubbish playing.
An old year has died?

	.....*.....

..........................................................
Supplement (367-400)

He starts - you finish;
each sentence locked in laughter,
such a bond binds them!

Luscious strawberries,
too good to eat, advertised
on the seed packet.

Manic gay guy stopped 
his lithium for Mardi Gras
and danced the whole week.

In same place re-placed 
the ancient rose bush, shadow
of a ghost with flesh.

Native bats prefer
native fare, desperation
drives them to `pick fruit.'

The business world
was itself taken over
by those takeovers.

Nothing like a wash
behind the ears to spruce up
common garden ferns.

The train winds on past
like a long snake fleeing town,
commuters on board.

The city hill top
floats above the mist like a
heavenly blanket.

Looked intelligent
this youth throwing away his
cigarette packet.

Bird calls in the mist,
like unseen ghosts re-guarding			(Or regarding)
their territory.

These fragrant `moon-flo'wers'
(my name for them) through the mist
stare at the white sun.

The thick mist then thins
suggesting a brilliant day
without telling time.

Flashes of colour,
exploding	in sheer silence,
a child's soap bubbles.

Drunken larrikins,
watching each other, like apes
before a mirror.

Sailors come ashore,
on day passes, party on land,
feeling quite sea-sick.

Waking New Year's Day,
`seemed the same as all the rest,'
muttered the old drunk.

Leaves going around,
dancing without a care, sipped
just as carelessly.

World leaders take tea,
ending their talks discussing 
diff'rence between brands.

Official function;
a drama about actors 
acting as puppets.

The light of the torch
through the trees catching lilies
waiting patiently.

In rain do fish dream 
of drying out as bubbles
of trapped air slip past?

On the Summer sand
dream of a tropical beach
found far, far away.

Follow haiku path,
bringing me back home once more,
perhaps one more time?

See the haiku house,
hear the chattering of guests
nesting on the roof.

So poetical,
opening the haiku gate,
old hinges speaking.

Unlock haiku door,
standing on doorway entranced,
neither in nor out.

Sit in haiku chair,
see disembodied fragments
feeling self-composed?

Sleep in haiku bed,
dreaming of poems that will
never be written.

All dreams within dreams,
desired objects escaping,
fleeing for their life.

Love is sacrifice;
living hell before dying,
all hell after death.

Old trees have a voice,
talking gently in the wind,
creaking in the storm.

Sampled the sharp scent
of a new fl'wer discovered
by the hidden bee.

Sun showers gusting,
find the blossom glistening,
simulating frost.

	.....*.....