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Issue 84, Sawhill Ponds, Boulder, March 7, 2004 Haiku poets from Sawhill Ponds: Hal and Deb Gimpleson, Krista Morien, Sanjay Rajan, Susan Peterson, Sara Benson, Patrick Lynn, Robert Power and Jonathan Machen.

from shore to shore
friends wave
floating geese - sleep

rooster calls
beyond mallard's
hidden tin shed echoes

little by little
as the dry grass brushes my hand
hurt starts to melt

hard to find the words
for depression while talking
to such a good friend

finding my way through
broken teasel and crusty milkweed
sun beating down

sunny winter day
dressed as a cathedral window
made of cotton

warm afternoon
red-tailed hawk banks
and falls away

time, as if weightless -
my body demands deep roots
i stand still and watch

once i stop looking
i immediately find
something worth seeing

us, men and women
we're tethered by poetry
as strong as the heart

grasping upward
silvery grey dead fingers
sunbleached roots

i thought it was sleeping
until it dove head first
into the water

three haiku artists
stop - their moment of presence
as quiet as the pond

stunned into silence
directly under the flight path
of gliders and planes

positioning self
for best foto angle
creates great haiku

the sound of running water
changes the landscape

like a rubber duck
in a bathtub with waves
the goose tips - backside up

parisian slide show
contrasting grey city streets
with boulder march day

with a deep sigh, i
return to the haiku mind
and pay attention

in the duck pond
separated from nature
ok to shoot

obvioius by the
purposelessness of their stride
haiku friends in the distance

odd behavior?
those people who walk, stop and write

ducks and geese
floating on calm pond
reflecting calm mind

walking the same path
noticing my resistance
to walk the same path

trigger happy
hal and his digital
lucky not a gun

airplanes and geese
take off at the same time
geese are louder

my attempt's thwarted
what is my will anyway
except nature's way?

a vector for weeds
human with stretchy black pants
searching for haiku

what a wacky group
they call, saying everyone's here
now we can part

from serene to silly
the duck does another headstand
white butt in the air

not writing haiku
too many beautiful things
caught in lens

muddling around in
the mud of life - i
trip and fall

tilted toward the sun
my face grows warm and blushes
remembering heat

i found a tiny boat
that i set afloat

following the trail
deer droppings to my secret
place to pee

mystic blue
a different shade
yet so blue

i send out sonar
vibrations from my heart
does he receive them?

pale sky
pale the pain and
pale the fear of pain

back from his travels
sanjay parks himself by the pond
a stone in the sun

plenty of time to
walk on the earth in this life
if we take it

stark chalky trees
reflected in murky water

swaying and veering
just because if feels good
drunk on winter sun

wish i could twist my
neck and lay my head on my back
to take a nap

gradwalls quack, geese honk
even the power lines
crackle with spring

quiet contemplation
by lake blue
haku sara

noisy airplane buzz
mirrors mental chatter
while i chew cashew

my wife out of town
i laze around in the sun
and doodle on my jeans

in this bleached stillness
i let the winter sun empty
me of all desire

out here in nature
concerning ourselves with love
seems redundant

written haiku
floats into dark pond
from which it came

while pondering
this cloud of dark gnats
they all fly towards me

natural rhythm
coming together to part
over and over

three figures in black
my friends return from their walk
i am still rooted

two women equipped
with small binoculars
look at empty sky?

no hint of bird life
beyond tantalizing chirps
and rogue whistles

susan's here!
haiku ki party begins
deep still pond

everywhere i glance
my haiku friends have become
the stillness of trees

recently returned
from south america
belted kingfisher

in hard times
haiku blue

Circle by Susan Peterson

I resist completing the circle
With a wide brush dipped
in rich black ink
I push and then pull,
slowly rounding the form.
The end comes
near to the beginning
And then I stop
Just short of completion
Short of touching
Short of enclosure
Short of perfection

My soul speaks
And asks for breathing space
Between the beginning and the end
Between the line and the circle
Between open and closed
Between partial and complete

For what is ever complete anyway?
When the circle closes
Illusion enters
Illusion of perfection
Illusion of fullness
Illusion of completeness

When the circle closes there becomes
Inside and outside
Here and there
Accepted and rejected
Safe and unsafe

The wagons are circled
And we are either friend or foe
Christian or Jew
Gay or straight
Man or woman
Right or wrong

My soul speaks
And asks for breathing space
Just enough room
to allow entrance to

I, myself, have been a
million completed circles
Knowing with certainly who I am
What I believe
Which way is the right way
I have begun and completed
the circle many times
Only to feel entrapped
within its boundaries

Now, when I draw the circle
I stop short
I stop perfectly short
Allowing the breeze of my breath
Entrance and exit into
The known and unknown

Still full and whole
Yet empty and in part
The circle remains.

solo/group kukai
jonathan machen