haiku

five-point buck attacks

plate-glass window’s reflection—

rival for his lust

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back

 Ogle Inn at There-&-Back is where it’s at—

the galactic mysteries, magic, and a bit of mayhem.

If I yearn for inspiration, teleportation,

or release from my human soul,

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back is my habitat.

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back is on the flat

between dimensions, cosmic strings, and spatial warps.

If I want to brave the flow, a black hole’s abyss,

or the next step in evolution,

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back has all of that.

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back is a place to chat

with Spartans, spacemen, spirits, sprites, and spidermen.

If I desire conversation, motivation,

or directions to immortality,

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back gives tit for tat.

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back is all of that—

it’s Limbo, Hogwarts, Xanadu, and Jurassic Park.

If I seek its location, make it a destination 

 that’ll inspire my imagination,

Ogle Inn at There-&-Back is where it’s at.

Living Room (a lachesis)

They say I’m wily as a fox.
I am one hiding in the phlox
Bordering a black mailbox.

Long gone are the fertile fields and wood
My parents hunted.  This is no good.

I’m forced to hunt a vast suburbs.
Instead of leaping streams, it’s curbs—
Yes me, the subject of proverbs.

But where else can I possibly go?
I cannot fly off like a crow.

Those humans work with machine speed
Bulldozing land to gorge their greed.
They never ask us what we need.

I hear a mousy squeak up there
Under the hosta.  Do I dare?

I see a chipmunk scratching seed.
I smell a road-killed skunk’s last deed.
There are so many of us in need.

Red Fox
by Jan Haffley

Misfit Bird

Fluttering frantically, circling high,
racing, chasing, going nowhere.
Lost.  Trapped.  Separated from her nest.
Lost.  Alone.  No mate to be found.
Misfit bird, what are you doing in here
inside this place where
winds are driven by fans,
sunlight suffused by glass,
concrete fouled by shoes?

Fluttering frantically, circling high,
racing, chasing, going nowhere.
Fear.  Panic.  Caged by prison walls.
Fear.  Fatigue.  Driven by needs.
Misfit bird, you cannot fly forever.
Freedom is through those doors where
winds are forged by fronts,
sunlight filtered by clouds,
concrete scrubbed by storms.

Fluttering frantically, circling high,
racing, chasing, going nowhere.
Wings.  Wings so powerful.
Wings to do what I cannot.
Misfit bird, over there is the exit.
Come, follow me.
I have learned the way
out of this manmade world
into the natural one.

Chipping Sparrows
by Jan Haffley 

haiku

evening, black lava,

perched atop, yellow warbler—

a nugget of gold

Chirp

     Chirping, she expects me
     to follow her up a tree
     or under a raspberry bush.

     When she tires,
     I pick her up,
     kiss her forehead.

     A bottle of goat’s milk
     warms on the stove.
     Her chirps grow louder as she
     kicks free of the towel
     I’m using to protect
     my clothes as I hold her.
     I coo, ‘Soon.  Soon now,’
     as if she could
     understand.

     Rewrapped
     cradled in my arm,
     she sucks the nipple
     once,
     twice,
     thrice,
     then pushes the bottle away
     with five-fingered paws.
     She yawns,
     gulps,
     tries again.

     Her belly swollen,
     I set the bottle aside.
     Under the tap, I wash
     tiny hands and sticky snout.
     She nestles in my arm
     and purrs
     while I dream of the bridge
     I will build
     so a small raccoon may cross
     from my world
     back into hers.

Photo Shoot

               I step into a cooling
               pool of possibilities,
               sink into a reflective background,
               splash to shower my images
               with creativity,
               preen to remove unwanted ticks,
               and pretend my prints are pearls.

One of Them

Cinnamon-sugar sand—
light on the cinnamon—
corrugated sand
sculpted by waves
spills into my shoes.
I wade toward the surf-wetted interface
where strolling will be easier.

My visit will be brief hosted by the
heartbeat of surf
spicy scent of seawater
feathers of a breeze.

I reach down for a scallop shell.
I feel the smoothness of its pearl
and the roughness of  its surface—
gentleness inside
toughness outside
like most of us.

I stop to watch
black-bellied plovers
glean the surf
Bonaparte’s gulls
                sunbathe on a sand spit
brown pelicans
                dive-bomb for dinner
Forester’s terns
                frolic on air
and I am at one with them
until the tour bus leaves.

Hermit Crab
by Jan Haffley

Godzilla Rises

Godzilla rises from the sea

To put a scare in you and me

Until we look at pixels and see

An enchanting ghost of what could be.

Marine Iguana
by Jan Haffley

Huddling

We are going on a couple more photo shoots during May and early June.  I haven't finished all the India posts yet, so it will be a couple of months until I get back to them.  In the meantime, I'm going to post some piece from earlier trips.  This is the first:

 

 Huddling

Mousy mousebirds

with long feathered tails

cling to woody twigs,

huddled like football players

learning the next play

for blocking the evening chill.

Mousebirds
by Jan Haffley

White Ghosts

These ghostly trees may wear
cloaks of different hues—
a mossy green when rains
ride on monsoon winds
a blondish tan when dust
drifts high from dirty thongs
a hint of pink at dawn
azure blue at noon
vermilion at sunset
ashen at midnight
and white when all is well—
when Flames of the Forest burn
at their branches’ ends
and other species drop
their leaves to the forest floor
revealing ficus vines
arching from tree to tree
and clusters of bamboo
hiding jungle fowl.

These White Ghosts now stand
guard with regal air
calling for all who hear:
this forest is fit for life—
for the Bengal Tigers
and Sambar deer, their prey,
Asia’s Lion prides,
Leopards and Panthers Black,
pouncing Jungle Cats,
termite-eating bears,
Blackbuck stags, and more
who may not become
ghosts by extinction’s fate
as long as forests thrive.

                                  by Jan Haffley

haiku

in midday light, skunk

and five pups with tails high throw

caution to the wind

Messenger from the Gods

Messenger from the Gods

     Quetzal, Quetzal, springtime bright,
     Dressed in green and red and white
     That’s iridescent in the light
     Of morning at a mountain’s height.

     Resplendent Quetzal flying free
     Perched upon a feathery tree
     Bedecked with ferns and mossy lace,
     A forest with a different face.

     Endangered Quetzal posed so proud
     Disappearing in a cloud
     That harbors a fertile midday mist—
     A ghost no more while we insist.

     (quetzal = ket-'sȁl)

Frozen Breath

Exhaling clouds into winter’s trance,
Squinting though the frost at bright sunlight,
A tiny woman leans against her cane
With frigid fingers too stiff to move as she
Shuffles to a stop—just a pause.

Wearing a frayed old coat with hem detached,
Her frizzy white hair fringing a stocking cap,
She watches laughing children build a fort—
Protection from a snowman with broomstick
Arms, a drooping cucumber nose, and a staff.

A frenzied turmoil erupts as children look
For a missing boot beneath their fort
Falling down as they searched for what could not
Be found amid a wall—the boot had become
Home plate for the snowman’s staff, a baseball bat.

Her knitted gloves with dangling threads possess
Little grip as she fumbles with the snow
Beside the trampled walkway and tries to make
A softball to strike the snowman out while in
those few moments she is back on fields of play.

Crossing

It’s follow-the-leader,
the name of a game of thousands at a time.
In a wave, these wildebeests charge across
a beach of cropped savanna grasses toward
a perilous toil.

A froth of horns
atop this bestial wave flows out of
an acacia woodland and down toward a ramp
between boulders along an embankment of
the Mara River.

The leaders balk—
stopping there to search for courage to brave
swift currents, hungry crocodiles,
and bloated carcasses of kin killed during
prior crossings.

Assorted vehicles
line up to jockey for position, some blocking
the far-side ramps where the herd would climb
out of the water to escape the river's perils.
One wildebeest jumps.

Chaos then splashes
into the boulder-strewn river as wildebeests
attempt to follow one another across.
Currents push the bodies downstream so
their course bows.

Some vehicles move,
open a space where successful swimmers
can climb out of the river and up toward
fields of lush grasses, a feast all the way to
the calving grounds.

Another leader
chooses a different ramp down to the water’s
edge.  Lines merge.  Then a third track opens,
and three lines mingle.  Swimming heads and horns
become a mob.

More than once,
jumpers land on swimmers, water cushioning
the blows.  One looses her footing on a wet
ramp, dives in upside down.  She rights
herself unharmed.

Some turn away
opting to cross another day.  Splitting
the wave, they return to the cropped field.  A yearling
hesitates not knowing which direction
her mother went.

Last to cross,
this youngster was neither leader nor follower, but
a solo artist willing to risk injury or death
crossing the mad Mara River during the Great
Migration.

One by One

     One by one, they pranced in morning’s gloom
     stirring the ghostly mist upon the land.
     The unicorns drew near hypnotic seas
     tossing their nimble heads and long white manes.

     One by one, the virgin sprites appeared
     dancing upon frothy waves of dreams
     and shifting sands of timeless love to bond
     one by one with her arriving steed.

     One by one in waters tossed ahead
     of braking waves, a bio-luminescence
     twinkles as it transforms into azure
     butterflies which stream like tattered ribbons.

     One by one the butterflies adorn
     the fabled horses and phantom sprites,
     revealing little by little their graceful charms
     as sunlight paints the clouds a fragile pink.

     One by one the wizards appear in star-
     emblazoned robes, gray beards, and conical hats
     with sparkling wands in hand to send this sight
     into the mystic world of forgotten dreams.