While I’ll take life in any season, the transition from summer to fall is bumpy for me. This year, the melancholy I often feel during these pre-winter months has been accented by various family crises. Still, as the song goes, How can I keep from singing?
For all of us who feel the approach of autumn in the lowering of summer’s flame, WIZ is starting a haiku chain. So far in my part of the world the year has delivered a mixed bag of weather. Summer was cooler than usual and cooler than the ones we first experienced when we moved to the Four Corners region 9 years ago. Yet here we are three weeks into September with nary a hint of frost. Last winter was cold and windy, crackling with drought. The character of this winter seems anybody’s guess. If your summer-autumn transition seems unusual, you might remark on that in your haiku. Traditionally, haiku mention the season under consideration, but the season under consideration might be shifting in character. Feel free to explore that in haiku if you feel so inclined, but please emphasize the sensory detail of your experience–the sights, sounds, tastes, feel, and odors of the difference.
Many of you know what a haiku is: a classical Japanese poetical form, usually 17 syllables all in a single line in Japanese, but there are longer and shorter forms. In English, a haiku stacks lines, often in the order of one short line of 5 syllables on top, a long line of 7 syllables in the middle, then another short line of 5 syllables on the bottom. But there are many variations. Pick what you feel comfortable with.
How a WIZ haiku chain usually goes is this: Someone starts the chain. This year, I’m stepping up to do that. Somebody follows me, adding a single haiku in the comments, and then another person takes a crack, and ’round we go. You may link your haiku to an image in the previous haiku or stud the chain with something wholly original. I enjoy seeing other people’s individual expressions of how the arrival of this season strikes them and linking them up with mine. Other than the informal, one-at-a-time-please tradition, there’s no limit to turns a participant can take and no deadline for this activity.
My first link:
Fall, when light acquires
a drawl, when it slurs through leaves,
twangs in spider silk.
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Patricia Karamesines lives with her family in the Four Corners region of the southwestern U.S. She has won many awards for her poetry, essays, and fiction. She is the author of The Pictograph Murders, a mystery set in the area where she lives. An adjunct English professor for Utah State University-College of Eastern Utah, she teaches English composition but acts at the college mainly as an English tutor, working mostly with the school’s Native American students. She is founding editor of Wilderness Interface Zone and a passionate advocate for the environment of human expression.
light slurs through leaves
glazes rotting apples
raising incense to the sun
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ourfarewell to sun
is red and golden;bright waves
passing through mountains.
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Passing through autumn’s
mountains come armies waving
banners of decay
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Decay limps gruesome grand
as Whitman’s drum. All thrum
in Fall’s halfhearted light.
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Light’s ebb, most thrilling,
its gold-red warmth a last kiss
before winter’s night.
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.
Before winter’s night
let’s all scream one more hurrah
as we tumble to earth.
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To earth the rains have
Passed and now the heat
Wavers above the grave.
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Wavers at the grave.
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at his grave: she sweeps
red-gold leaves from the headstone
places a bouquet
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Autumn’s bouquet
breathes pungent, warm,
and willing to return.
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Frost wills the return
of promises–old blood shed
in drifts of yellow.
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Drifts of yellow, red
sunrise heap into storms that
blank light and rain cold.
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Autumn soil draws blank
across a hollow, shrinking heat,
withdrawn to heal and gather strength.
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Up-twining winds weave
Sky nets of summer-borne heat
To gather hailstones.
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gathering hailstones
in their cupped hands, wincing
at the early cold
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At the early cold,
I shrink under warm covers,
Waiting for the sun.
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roused at dawn he waits for sun to warm her pillow raise her fading scent
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Fading scents of fallen apples seep through the grass.
Colder winds rake them.
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cold winds rake clouds
into gossamer threads
the harvest moon’s thinning veil
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The veil thins; I turn
To see ghosts of autumns past
Rising round us all.
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waves rise around us–
scatters of birds, outrunning
the deathtide of frost.
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Frost laps at the crook
and crust like a lover or like death:
cold-tongued, sudden, and tender.
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the fowl-tongued reservoir blushes
as trees begin their slow disrobing
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Disrobed and shivering,
fair-fleshed trees groan and mutter,
marrow hard and helpless in their bones.
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marrow-cold winds smack the graveyard oak heap its limbs in a fresh-dug grave
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Fresh-dug, inured,
the berm of Autumn bends
the fragile world to coming blasts.
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canyon blasts bend oak westward
the harvest moon berms in Earth’s umbra
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Umbral, the threshold–
The door between bright and dark.
Shivering, I cross.
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canada geese shiver south
shadows crossing borders
crossing seasons
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Crossing these seasons
the boatman borrows silver
bends double in the prow.
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the tree bows beneath
crimson-red apples and wind
beneath the blood moon
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A full blood moon,
sweet with harvest,
bitter with encroaching cold,
drops petulant
into the toe of a warm
and woolly universe.
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*into the warm toe
of a woolly universe.
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she slips an arm
from her wool throw
pinches the blood moon
holds it to her eye
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The moon is Autumn’s
milky eye, a cataract and sickly
prophecy of winter’s blank
and seer-sight stare.
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roadside crow
blood moon in its stare
beak wide against
guttered leaves
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Midnight! Not a sound from the pavement!
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midnight
no sound from the pavement–
but a skittering leaf
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The skittering leaf,
The crow’s mournful comb rattle
Accompany the death march.
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Death rattle, crow-comb Autumn
resents the morbidity of these associations,
passes, as ever, with a “seeyalater, suckers!”
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Autumn breaks the chains
Of summer moths; the flutters
End, yet winds creak on.
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blowing crosswise orchard rows
late gusts rattle limbs
laden with pomes
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Cottonwood, ash–change
dropping golden, loose into
dry pockets of wind
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Running, winded, dry.
My lungs an empty pocket
Pushing and pulling.
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Night takes day, spreading
behind trees, traveling miles as
my blackened shadow.
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Moonlight created,
To dance wild among tree shades–
tessellating hope
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Orange dragonfly; fall
sun gilds mosaic wing veins:
four stained-glass windows.
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The gaps between mesas
Open themselves to the skies.
Birds sail through unmarked.
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Monarch butterflies,
wings red with milkweed liquor,
jig desert light south.
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Grey blue on grey on
Palest of greys; rising sighs
Of sleeping winter
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