Tweeted Haiku: In the Woods

The following was tweeted January through June 2015, to the hashtag: #inthew00ds


And then morning comes
and lights my path to the woods
where I can "return."

And there, on the path
that takes me into the woods,
a tree has fallen.

Re-enter the woods,
careful not to step on growth.
Clear your awareness.

Pulling from my phone,
my attention finds the trees,
and I'm in the woods.

The trees and the breeze
filling up my attention,
when I dwell in ease.

Stiff as my sternum,
the armor guarding my heart
turns soft, in the woods.

Where was that last dream?
So vivid in my mind now,
walking through some woods . . .

Dashed lines swirling past--
watch it snowing in the woods,
where gray sticks twinkle!

Sunshine revealing
a rare morning in winter;
the woods is alive!

Squirrels way up high,
they cause me to raise my eye,
and there I see you.

In the woods, the owls,
normally sleeping right now,
try to see your eyes.

In the woods are deer;
they symbolize your sadness.
The woods are my hug.

Foggy cold damp gray,
a warm January day--
looks great with blue jays!

Dashed lines swirling past--
watch it snowing in the woods,
where gray sticks twinkle!

The winter morning
holds a bright surprise today:
blue, between white trees!

The darkness bellows
over winter winds howling--
always underneath . . .

On the coldest day,
the warmth of your hand in mine
turns the frost to fire.

This breath, always there,
while cubs play, waking the woods-
To it, I return.

Midnight energy,
sounds of owls in the dark,
pull me from my sleep.

We trees are dreaming,
along with the owls and elves,
though none of us sleep.

The woods is brighter
on this white winter morning,
with glimpses of spring.

Inside the town hall:
the sound of togetherness
from busy beavers.

The fog has lifted,
and under the morning light,
a dampness remains.

January thaws,
so sloppy yet refreshing,
bare sad grass patches.

Comes the transition:
the blue sky much brighter now,
between the bare woods.

Longer days wander
towards the eternal now;
morning wakes sooner.

Leonard Nimoy
The woods, always there,
a thousand years from today,
in Leonard's vision.

Without the winter,
the spring would not spring with such
anticipation.

The foggy morning
hides the squirrels in their trees,
yet we know they're there.

Monday morning fog,
blocking all the week's sunshine,
keeps me in my bed.

Monday morning fog,
leaving behind the weekend,
clearing out in time.

Monday morning fog,
shielding me from the woods,
and clearing my mind.

Outside, spring has sprung,
the critters knew it before
calendars told us.

The early morning
energy is crisp today.
Dark trees move: they're deer!

Fat crows are calling,
so overt, in the bare trees,
chilling the morning.

The big round pink moon
caused a rippling river
pouring from my pen.

Crisp sky blue morning,
following the sun to noon,
and then to the moon.

Was a windy week,
blowing up a summer day
in the coming months.

We hear the haiku
deep in whispering zephyrs,
flowing through the trees.

Earth aromas sigh,
while bouquet smells still surprise,
and animals cry.

Orange sky of April,
where turkey vultures circle;
they harm no critter.

While the fog recedes,
the leaves have emerged so green,
they free the forest!

Early spring rain storm,
dims the light of the new sun,
but beckons the leaves.

Winter fills this spring,
cold before the coming storm . . .
the apocalypse?

Foggy woods again,
cheering on the rising sun,
turning bud to leaf.

Evening sunshine
sprinkles through forest roof,
and lights my thinking.

Under last fall's leaves,
we will discover mushrooms,
and yes! Contentment!

Mushrooms are popping,
grass roots arising in
a magical woods.

What's "right intention?"
You'll discover mine hiding
in the mushroom patch!

The sunny morning
shines through the meditation
and calms that breathing.

The rain stops briefly,
tiny baby leaves upturned,
and spring springs forward.

Midnight chattering,
with cicadas and crickets.
Insomnia thrives.

Where trees greet the sky,
blue invades the tree limbs, who
scratch the clouds with twigs.

In the compost pile
we see that the one percent
ends the same as we.

Tell me which is which,
are they poor, or are they rich?
Bluebells in the ditch.

The night sky brightens,
orange-blue sun rays pierce the trees,
and then all goes dark.

Do vultures cause harm,
or do they clean our highways,
living free of hate?

Puppy hears crow calls,
little ears perk like radar--
the calls fade away . . .

Let go of all views-
one angle shows partial truth.
Seek the superset.

Dawn squirrel chatter
amid crow caws and chick chirps,
and the morning sun.

The shortness of life,
exuded all around us,
by the birth of bees.

Musical morning,
songbird rhythm rhyming with
squirrel chattering.

Watching you working,
like witnessing hummingbirds,
while a flower blooms.

Where trees greet the sky,
blue invades the tree limbs, who
scratch the clouds with twigs.

See the last spring rain,
notice the trees bow, laden
with holy water.

The flag at half mast,
flying silent in the woods,
as trees weep thick sap.

Winter fills this spring,
cold before the coming storm . . .
the apocalypse?

Under the bushes,
watching his children learning,
a father wolf lies.

Moonlight dashes through
the darkened cottonwood stand,
and wakes the crickets.

Starting the coffee,
with one finger she pushes
her hair and my heart.

Dandelion dawn -
fluttered across the field,
the gold dust God left.

The spider crosses
the sidewalk in front of me.
Does it notice me?

Dear scary spider,
do you feel the fear I feel,
and hold yourself back?

God help this spider-
help it to know me deeply,
in the energy.

See the last spring rain,
notice the trees bow, laden
with holy water.

Light shaft strikes the ground,
other side of the ravine,
missing the sapling.

Underneath the trees,
daisies bending in the breeze,
to catch the sunlight.

I bite an apple,
and end a future sapling--
to prolong this life.

When I ordered steak,
the Dharma showed me I stood
in a Sushi Bar.

Into the clearing,
reaches the gooseberry trees,
where squirrels feel rich.

Watch the oak tree sway,
standing with the woods, hearing
haikus in the wind.

I hear the haiku
uninterrupted river
running through my pen.

The flag at half mast,
flying silent in the woods,
as trees weep thick sap.

Come, ray of the sun,
articulate what they have done,
to whom they've succumbed.

While dusk settles in,
light streaming through the forest
seems to be greener.

Light shines through the trees,
down to the darkest ravine,
#SCOTUS has spoken!