Cloud Blossom River

For the MET > Autumn 2008

2008-11-10T22:18:00.007+01:00

a bouquet
of home-grown peonies
on my table
my husband’s letters
to his mistress

that music
makes me get up and
dance
like everything else
something I do alone

looking at
a painting of the sky
by van Gogh
its wild comets and stars
staring out of my eyes

lurking amid
a pile of war rubble
blades of grass
who knows how many
lie nameless beneath

one summer
during a day moon
you will watch
me turn into a butterfly
and greet the evening

half a minute
before it reaches the ground
a falling leaf
as I fold my clothes
prior to departure

a tanka a day
a famous writer recommends
I pause
to search for meanings
in buttons and keyholes

at the hospital
the final diagnosis …
he sighs
in genuine relief
it’s not his uterus

examining
my Yahoo mailbox
the same list
of unopened mail
… the ads look interesting

she offers
to read my palm
as always
my life and love lines
barely discernible

I miss you
and cry sometimes
banana tree
how the monsoon wind
blows me further away

At the Beach at Nieuw Haamstede, Zeeland

wild bulls
on Hellegatsplein
sunburnt
their shadows tatooed
onto the afternoon

scent of honeysuckle
coming from the dunes
across the islands
where the beams of
two lighthouses meet

two young girls
at the water’s edge
wet their feet
just enough of the ocean
to moisten the evening

taking home
some sand grains
and verses
I have forgotten
how you left me

My contributions to the Autumn 2008 edition of Modern English Tanka. The start of the schoolyear has been rather difficult under the shadow of an impending reorganization. To relieve my inability to string up verses, I have taken up painting. Honestly, though, I cannot rest until I have found a second job. Easier dreamed of than done. The tanka above were written within a space of some five months, some more easily than others. Now, it's a mad race on towards the year-end holidays ... and perhaps, hopefully, a short break.

On The Road

2008-07-28T19:32:00.003+02:00

Utrecht is pouting
this tedious morning.
I drive on its lower lip
puckered with traffic.
Further north, curving,
the A1 is an eyebrow
leading to the eye,
Amsterdam and its ring,
with its old harbour,
nose clogged with fumes.

The Heuvelrug
humps its back.
I ride its measured waves
valley in, hill out,
past the eyelashes
of speed cameras,
the spine of the A27
stretching further south,
its tip curving into Breda,
medieval city of kings.

Leaving Rotterdam later,
I snake into the A29,
the knots of two highways
and twelve hours of work
loosening behind me,
as I cruise and review
the hours, the distances,
eager for sunrise,
another day giftwrapped
in asphalt ribbons.

Two more weeks of the summer, and then, ready or not, it's back on the road and to work. Seriously speaking, of course I'll be ready. These two weeks to go will nevertheless remain a treat, for sure.

For the MET > Summer 2008

2008-06-29T15:11:00.004+02:00

the memory
of my old friend Elisabeth
and her dandelions ...
I was a penniless orphan
she was a liberal blond

if I had
even only one sister
you and I
know that would have been
enough for a pillow fight

sewing a button
onto an old shirt
all this time
the persistent need
to make ends meet

my husband
of fifty-six years ...
the women
still turn their heads
and ignore me

I sit and look
at a picture of me
as a twelve-year-old
something nudges me
to draw fangs on it

by tomorrow
someone will have asked me
how my day went --
my chemotherapy session
and the divorce papers

spring evening ...
what if I fall asleep like
my grandmother
with my glasses on
the gas pipes still open

crescent moon
high behind the basilica
the iron cross
bright with two spotlights
which turn off at midnight

right here
my gifts are wrapped
and ready
your seeing-eye dog sniffs
and barks at hidden candy

My contributions to the Summer 2008 edition of Modern English Tanka, the issues of which I regularly browse through. If I am not mistaken, these were written within a space of six hours, at a fairly leisurely pace. It was one of those evenings when I felt overwhelmed by verses and needed to nail them down on the flatscreen of my laptop before they sailed on to other shores. That also happened to be one of the very last evenings of peace before the weeks of overtime that followed. Not that I regret working (fabulous job, good pay). It's the lack of time to write that can be a damper.

Stars ...

2008-03-21T23:39:00.003+01:00

March storm
Aldebaran hides
behind clouds

evening star
even in deep sleep
I see it

northern sky
my husband and I
connect the dots

stargazing
on an empty beach
they gaze back

starlight
through the bare trees
passing mist

falling stars
so many wishes
before I retire

shooting stars
... fifty points
if I see one?

My contributions to the March 2008 haiku thread of the online journal Sketchbook -- http://poetrywriting.org/Sketchbook3-2Feb08/0_Stars_Thread_March_2008.htm . This was a troubled evening at the end of a troubled 1-1/2 weeks, and the poems came after I had made a difficult career-related decision.

Moods of a March Evening

2008-03-09T09:52:00.006+01:00

I

Listening to a song
that was a favourite
before I wrote my poems –
how different it is now!
Running through a field,
aura scattered carelessly,
wet grass between my toes,

I watch the sun turn west
right there behind the hills,
its spheres lingering behind
on a tray of cake and wine,
on a statue of a mother and child,
in the bass of a bullfrog –
the dying sounds of sunset.

II

Here, amid this rubble,
this unsorted pile of bills,
memoranda, greeting cards,
here is where I will write,
on this table, heavy and firm.
This is the cave, the wall,
where I will leave a handprint,
mine, in ochre,
burnt red at the edges.
In the flickering shadows
of the dying fire
you will feel me breathing,
moving, fingerpainting.
Near my hand you will see
bison, wild boar, mammoth,
the caveman’s verses,
the shaman’s prayers,
odes to the bow, the spear,
the sabre-toothed tiger.
On the rough surfaces
of the impenetrable rock,
on this wide plasma screen,
I will not colour by numbers.

III

This March evening
even the snow is in bloom;
wild white petals drift down,
coating all in weightlessness,
evening sticks out its tongue
to catch the wings of flakes,
a chameleon in a coat
of sandalwood smoke.

Wrote this in March 2007, in stages. My book, Sorrows of the Chameleon, had just been published, and I was still on a roll.

Atlas Poetica - Spring 2008 contributions

2008-03-08T17:58:00.008+01:00

along the road
the gentle whisper
of wild grass
still he wonders why
the women leave him

walking along
Breda's cobbled streets,
musing ...
far away in Amsterdam
a woman awaits my husband

in the Veluwe
rumours of the hunt ...
warthog tribes
snouts pressed to the ground
warpaint on their hooves

after two days
at the orphanage
I died
then lived through
five more lives

this is still
the metropolis of
my youth
when my stepmother scolded
and called me dirty names

The original of this next one was written in Filipino, after news of yet another landslide in The Philippines. The English version is not a literal, but a figurative translation, although some of the words match: gubat = forest, bayan = country, nakalublob = buried.

ang gubat
ay wala na ...
sa putik
nakalublob
ang ating bayan

the forest
is no more ...
the land
has buried itself
in its own clay

These tanka were published in the first issue of Atlas Poetica, Number 1, Spring 2008. I'm rather proud of them, especially considering the fact that all of them were written very quickly and spontaneously. Thanks a lot, Mr. Kei!

Book Review - Sorrows of the Chameleon

2008-03-03T10:32:00.012+01:00

KRIPOTKIN By Alfred A. Yuson
The Philippine Star - Monday, March 3, 2008
Immigrant verses

Let's continue where we left off a fortnight ago, with omnibus reviews of poetry books we received all of last year. Consider this the third part of the series. Ella Wagemakers of Holland sent her first poetry collection early enough in 2007, titled Sorrows of the Chameleon. The book was printed in the US by Xlibris Corporation (Orders@Xlibris.com).

All of 136 pages in lovely off-white paper, the collection includes poems previously published in various e-zines, such as the Philippine e-zine Dalityapi / Makata which comes out monthly.

Interesting inclusions are several haiku, senryu, tanka, and a haibun,which combines haiku with travel-bound prose. These Japanese poetic forms are always good venues for literary exercises and manifestations of discipline. Wagemakers succeeds in transposing her expatriate Filipina verses in English into exhalations of the eye, as a sigh of an insight.

In "Moon Haiku," for instance, the two-part series of 11 haiku heightens towards the end of the first part, with: "moon rising/ looking for the face/ that looks like me// bearded moon/ even your dark side sleeps/ in winter" Then the parallel culmination or closure is applied just as adeptly: "winter moon/ on a bed of clouds/ ... owl feathers// the moon/ in duckpond water/ choked by reeds// eve of the storm/ black clouds stain/ the full moon// in the park/ moon gathering/ the poets" One absorbs the imagery as reflective of a foreigner's ambivalence of inclusion in a strange new habitat, inclusive of the curious regard for a fellow habitue. Thus she also adopts the motif of the chameleon, referencing "flexibility of disguise to the ability of people to adapt to their situations."

Born in Manila, Ella moved to The Netherlands in 1988 and became a Dutch citizen in 1993. She currently teaches English full-time at the Dutch Police Academy. I first met her in Chicago in 2003, at an AWP (American Writers & Publishers) convention attended by many expatriate Filipino poets and Fil-Am writers. A year or so later, in between poetry reading gigs in Antwerp and Rotterdam, I hooked up with Ella and her husband Adrian in Leiden, and they took me on a scenic tour of windmill country.

Last August, she visited Manila with Adrian, so we had quite a pleasant reunion, marked by recollections of homegrown mutations of weed in and around Amsterdam, as well as my lament on the sorry stuff we have. Conversely, our poetry remains dynamic, bolstered by such poetry books as this debut by Ella.

Of her first book (written in Dutch) that was a tracing of the genealogy of the Wagemakers family, Ella produces a fine haibun: "I go back in time to 1611, the year the church in Meer started keeping records. Again, I move forward from year to year, and from village to village. The sun changes position several times before I stop. Her name tells me she is nobody, and she is nowhere to be found..." Then the incorporated haiku: "a woman's shadow/ walks by the well—/ there is no echo."

There are three poems in Filipino in this collection that is as much a gentle cri di coeur as a soft ululation. "Paakyat akong hinila/ ng hinihingal na hagdanan.// Bukas-palad na naghintay/ ang malinis na silid-tulugan.// Ngiting mainit ang salubong/ ng ilaw sa tabi ng higaan.//Malambing ang haplos/ ng kumot at mga unan.// Walang tutol kong hinubad/ ang sama ng loob ng araw." (from "Ikalima ng Hapon")

Ella Wagemakers' poetry is chameleon-like, indeed, a necessary stance vis-a-vis globalization. Her mild sorrows are also universal, however acutely personal, and thus charming with its many skins and colors of privacy. I look forward to more of her delicate poetry.

A review on my book, Sorrows of the Chameleon, by writer / professor / critic Alfred A. Yuson, known popularly as Krip. A very likeable character with his own sorrows. It is an honour to be mentioned by him, anywhere.

Islands

2008-03-02T10:38:00.004+01:00

200 islands
and you are not on
any one of them

my boat
from island to island
a leaf on the water

Published online at http://wkdhaikutopics.blogspot.com/2008/03/matsushima.html . It's been a busy five weeks, with five more to go before my three-week break. Gabi's sites like this one often give me unexpected ideas and offer me priceless moments of relaxation. A few minutes from now, I'll be returning to work -- Sunday overtime, filling in evaluation forms for my police cadets (students).

Mount Utsu

2008-02-17T19:58:00.004+01:00

Mount Utsu
even the old men
had lovers

steep mountain
on the road a cart
loses a wheel

late autumn
a cold wind pushes me
up the mountain

mountain wind
my clothes and my skin
become one

steep mountain
at the top perhaps
two stars

Published today at one of Gabi Greve's blogspots -http://wkdhaikutopics.blogspot.com/2008/02/mount-utsu.html . Mountains, temples and tea count as favourite haiku topics of mine, perhaps because all three have something to do with the act (art?) of contemplation.

Cuttings - 1

2008-02-16T00:11:00.011+01:00

We hear that he still goes to work
with his jeep, his shoes
and all of his eighty-odd years.
I stopped writing him years ago,
his last card still in its envelop.
This is how I want it – no creases,
no liana vines or loose shoelaces.
Nagtatampo siya, they’ve told me,
a remark I’ve since tried to ignore.
If we meet at a party I’ll sit
at another table with five strangers.
No one will ask if we’re related,
or if I knew his wife, who managed
her own private stock exchange.
Afterwards we’ll stroll in Mabini,
I’ll play the bargirl he called me,
and ask my husband for money.

The first of several parts.

Post-Valentine's Day

2008-02-15T22:31:00.009+01:00

soft music
as you stand near the door
dreamily
I pour us some drinks and
wonder what lies you'll tell me

The 14th of February has become so commercial, everyone celebrating it has become almost predictable; and to think this had never been part of original Dutch culture. On the other hand, how else to call a day of customized romance ... Ella the Cynic

Finally

2008-02-10T00:05:00.004+01:00

behind the wheel
north towards the woods
... out of the way
the long familiar road
to where you once lived

A break of 3 years is quite long, and there have been reasons -- a friendship thrown away, the rediscovery of our marriage, and 45-hour-long work weeks. In between all that, two permanent employment contracts, a Master's Degree, and my first poetry collection Sorrows of the Chameleon, which I wrote more to express myself than to sell (although a little profit on the side won't hurt at all...). Enough said, except perhaps the hope that I can maintain this site a tad more faithfully.

Santoka - a response

2008-02-01T23:37:00.005+01:00

climbing
all my mountains
tireless wind

empty
as I walk to the sea
I fill with water

on the path
only the autumn moon
and my sandals

no hope
of finding my mother
a lie I like to tell

the house
that knew my childhood
I have burned it

on the road
talking to myself
a poplar tree listens

my bed
at the edge of moonlight
no dreams come

These were written on 01 February in response to haiku written by poet Santoka Taneda, which I read in his collection 'For All My Walking' (translations by Burton Watson). They have been published online at http://haikutopics.blogspot.com/2006/09/santoka-and-sake.html . Santoka's sake poems may be well-known, but his poems on loneliness reflect a sincerity and openness of feeling that is not easy to find. He wrote of his life and lived it like a poem.

Manila ... and me

2005-03-31T12:41:00.000+02:00

thoughts of Manila ...
heavy cloud shadows
on the paper

gray cogon ...
the desolate fields where
once my heart dwelt

balut shells
in the dark - the movie
was not that good

sundown -
a stray dog barks
at strangers

bay sunset -
the stench of garbage
darkening

nightlife -
Mabini's red lights
delay the morning

sun long dead -
the homeland darkens
in the distance

Reminiscing darkly about the Philippine capital. Strange, perhaps, but every time the plane lands, it is evening. My soul experiences a black-out when my feet touch ground.
These haiku were written within the past 3 months.

Tulip Tanka

2005-03-26T10:36:00.001+01:00

deep pink
tulips adorn my garden
the colour
of the crayons I used up
to make them real

tulpen
bloeien ongeremd
in de tuin
waar eens opa's as
werd gestrooid

tulips
bloom uninhibited
in the garden
were once grandpa's ashes
were scattered

Even at pre-kindergarten age, I dreamed of tulips in the garden, and spent box after box of crayola drawing them in all sizes and colours. A brick house, tiles on the roof, curtains at the window, a fruit tree of some kind somewhere ... and tulips. And guess where I live now!

Animal Planet

2005-03-22T21:09:00.001+01:00

dry savannah
watchful eyes follow
the zebra crossing

savannah sun
cheetah spots swipe at
an antelope's leg

wildebeest
hooves echo the drumming
of heavy rain

buffalo carcass
vultures jockey
into position

jungle foliage -
tiger stripes mingle
with the tall grass

only thin air
between the condor
and its prey

elephants in a
mangrove swamp - trunks
and roots in water

a lioness falls upon
a gazelle - the laughter
of waiting hyenas

table music -
a fly tugs at a
spider's harp strings

This series of linked haiku was, and still is, inspired by the various television wildlife programs on Animal Planet, a division of Discovery Channel, but also by programs on the National Geographic channel. There were originally 12.

Outpost

2005-03-20T20:44:00.000+01:00

The turning cradle was a tin can with
a bell to summon the holy

to fetch unholy flesh concealed within,
a lump of clay in unwashed rags,

its head a ball, its shoulders shapeless,
the heart beating without sticks.

The holy women, diapers on their heads,
first crossed themselves, then

cleaned the offering with holy water,
put it in a bed with bars, gave it food.

A medicine man counted its fingers and
toes, a holy man chanted over it.

Later, a couple entered the room, and
called it a whore.

Written on 06 April 2004. One of my first poems about my abrupt "coming of age".

Wild Flowers

2005-03-18T16:30:00.000+01:00

Original Version:

Running through the fields of wild grass,
we pluck each other, gazing, laughing,
wild flowers unpetalling, seeds drifting,
strangled in each other’s scented hair.

Your hands stroke my willing shoulders,
my nose your open neck, we face the sun
together, visions of fresh juicy plums
watering our open, insatiable mouths.

Then we take each other’s hand and walk,
flowing from shady mid-afternoon to silver
evening, the fruit-laden, fragrant earth
tasting the honeyed breath of our skin.

Linked Haiku Version:

dotting
fields of wild grass
cornflowers

early spring
the honeyed scent
of wild herbs

veiled and deep
the fragrance
of petals unfolding

summer day
in the buttercup field
a cow and its moo

scented
my hair and the grass
entangled

paradise -
an earthworm shimmies up
the plum tree

poker-faced
sunflowers - why
do I smile back?

For rather obvious "flowery" reasons, I have never submitted the original version, written in 2002, for publishing. The linked haiku version I have posted online at the Brownsong forum. You don't have to wonder which one I prefer!

Moon Haiku

2005-03-15T13:15:00.001+01:00

sharing
the hunter's burden -
full moon

hunted deer
its eyes search the moon
one last time

moon
when you see my face
what do you see?

first quarter -
half a coffee ring on
my newspaper

November moon -
the last ball of cheese
in the fridge

eve of the storm
black clouds stain
the full moon

under
a poker-faced moon,
three lovers

rising moon -
which basket will you
fall into?

Eight of a growing number of moon haiku. "Moon" is an autumn kigo.
Except for one, these were written within the last four weeks. "November moon" was published online at http://www.tempslibres.org, 01-15 November 2004.

Slow Dawn [shintai haiku]

2005-02-20T11:29:00.002+01:00

slow dawn -
squeezing the morning out
of a toothpaste tube

Written / posted 10 February 2005 in the WHC workshop; selected for display in the WHC Showcase on 19 February 2005. [And to think I wrote this at a sleepy moment upon arriving at work...] I thought it was senryu, but I guess it's not.

For Ri

2005-02-18T09:35:00.001+01:00

I see them
as he touches her
there
between her legs
warmly,
her fruit ripe, swollen;
his fingers,
long, warm knives,
slice
into her waiting
flesh,
open in his hands,
his thumb
on her very nucleus;
she moans,
her breath in gasps;
her juice
drips onto his skin,
liquid fire.

He sees me,
his eyes two lights
dancing
as he holds her tight,
firmly;
my eyes slowly orbit
to her face,
flushed, drugged
with desire;
cradling her gently,
his tongue
glides to her breast,
seeking
to taste her scent;
a smile
catches, parts my lips;

misty-eyed,
she sees me, later
as I make tea.

Written at 04.30 this morning ... for Ri.

Published in Makata International Poetry Journal [http://www.dalityapi.com/makata], Vol. 6, No. 3, March 2005.

To Her Who Almost Was

2005-02-17T13:13:00.001+01:00

to her
who almost was my mother
a gentle kiss
for all the lives we had
that never were

Written during my lunch break today, after having opened Gene Murtha's mail containing a William Stafford poem called "Stillborn". Suddenly wonder if they told her I was stillborn, too.

Winter 2004 - 2005

2005-02-09T20:31:00.001+01:00

early morning frost
a thin layer of sleep
on the windshield

winter morning
playing with my thoughts
on the snow

winter stillness
deer shadows rustling
behind the trees

layer upon layer
fallen snow fills in
a blackbird's tracks

winter beech -
twigs cover the sky
with brushstrokes

field of snow
in the distance
tufts of trees

Written between the early days of December 2004 and late January 2005. December 2004 marked the rather long moment when I seemed to have discovered my style. These are, in effect, my first ever winter haiku. And now, it's almost spring ...

Haiku Experiment

2005-02-04T19:35:00.000+01:00

Situation:
The winter moon looks cold outside. The writer is working till late at night with the radio on and getting tired and sleepy. [The radio is broadcasting news about the Iraq war.]

Neo-Classical haiku form:

winter moon -
the news weaves through
my scribblings

Shintai haiku form:

cold moon -
news of a far-away war
distracts my pen

Vanguard haiku forms:

a harsh light
as the news interrogates
my sensibilities

cold news - my pen
scratches a trail of blood
on the paper

Senryu form:

faithful pen
a quaint attempt to keep things
black and white

My first attempt to write about a single theme using various haiku forms. This specific workshop was set up by WHC director Susumu Takiguchi. The challenge of a hands-on approach always appeals to me. I haven't as yet received any feedback, though.

Old House [a tanka]

2005-02-02T20:57:00.001+01:00

how slowly
the old house crumbles
a heap of stone
long before the fire
burned all my love

This tanka may eventually become part of a longer chain of haiku and tanka about the house where I spent my early years - a well of sorrow, a thorn, a dead tree.

Published in Makata International Poetry Journal [http://www.dalityapi.com/makata], Vol. 6, No. 3, March 2005.

Vik

2005-01-30T08:30:00.001+01:00

On the black beach of Dyrholaey,
a cairn of stones.

Thick clouds linger on Vatnajökull,
swelling the glaciers.

From crevices in the basalt cliffs,
puffins fly out to fish.

A turf house is smothered in green,
its door open.

The pale light of the midnight sun
hides behind Mÿrdal.

This was written in the summer of 2004, part of our memories of Iceland, a land we wish to visit again one day. There is much to see there, much to take your breath away, a land of rugged yet relaxing beauty. The word "vik" means "inlet", a piece of land between two promontories. It is where the word "viking" comes from.

First Quarter Tanka

2005-01-28T13:40:00.001+01:00

night clouds
swallow the wafer-thin
moon
darker than shadows
my graying hair

mooncloud
sailing in the mist
above the trees
starlight weaves
through pine needles

Written on 13 January 2005; the first quarter appeared sharply etched in the sky, as thin as a blade, almost as though it had been polished - before the first cloud passed by.

For The Tsunami Victims, 2004

2005-01-26T20:26:00.001+01:00

The earth groaned,
opening her wounds
one by one.

A fisherman
finds the net of his life
in tatters, nothing more
than one big hole.

A father caresses
his dead son again
and again, and again.

The waves have
washed away photographs,
faces, names.

A mother clutches
her small child, and runs
everywhere, nowhere.

Widows hug
their saris, lines of grief
mark their faces.
No flowers
for the mass graves.

An orphan
desperately clings
to his family tree.

After the waves
half the skies are empty;
a hundred thousand stars
have gone out.

Awakening -
how long before the waters
reach my shore?

On 26 December 2004, an underwater quake in the Indian Ocean caused massive waves to crash upon the shores of Sri Lanka, India, Thailand, and, the worst hit, the island of Aceh in Indonesia, resulting in a high toll of human life.

Published in its true form in Makata International Poetry Journal [http://www.dalityapi.com/makata], Vol. 6, No. 2, February 2005.

Year's End [a haibun]

2005-01-22T22:51:00.000+01:00

A quiet evening. I curl up on the couch, television turned off, mug of tea with lemon, plaid blanket to keep my knees warm, and think again of my mother -- the real one.

She has always been an enigma to me. Every morning, I look at myself in the mirror -- at my eyes, my hair, my face with its changing expressions, and try very hard to see her. The gray in my hair makes me think of the swift passing of time. I wonder how old she is, where she comes from.

dust on the ground
the bones of
my forefathers

I have no name, no date of birth, no parentage, no photographs, no letters. I do not know the sound of her voice. Does she talk like me at the end of a long day? Do her eyebrows meet the way mine do whenever I am trying to solve a puzzle? Does she sing, weep, write poetry, walk on the beach alone? Perhaps, too, she wonders about me. No doubt, we carry parts of each other. I read this haibun aloud, pretend it is her.

wind by the river
sighing
like my mother

Outside, the darkness of a winter evening, but for the moon. I am thinking that, perhaps, she looks at it, too, sometimes. Maybe she saw it last night before she went to bed, and observed that it was the same moon as the one last month, last year, year after year, for the past forty years, and forgot it when she closed her eyes. Old moon, that has seen so many things with his one eye ... even me.

moon rising
looking for the face
that looks like me

The original version was written in week 52, 2004, in the dying days of December.

Dyrholaey Beach - fragments

2005-01-20T01:37:00.001+01:00

my footsteps
deeper than my shadows
at sunrise

in the cold
morning air - the clear call
of a gull

watering hole -
puffins and ducks
in the shallows

driftwood
thoughts washing up
on the shore

north wind
blowing over the dune grass
sand so still

myself
another grain of sand
on the beach

between
the sunset and the shore
the cries of gulls

only water
between my footsteps
and the horizon

blue glow
of early evening
a puffin's last cry

flaming sunset
even sand grains
have shadows

These haiku were mainly inspired by Dyrholaey Beach, in Iceland (southern coastline), where we spent our summer holiday in 2004, but also by the beach in Borssele, here in The Netherlands, which will one day be converted into an industrial port because it lies between Rotterdam and Antwerp (Belgium).