ice fog
everything familiar
unfamiliar
Third Place
Shintai Haiku Category
late autumn
snow geese scattered
over dark fields
Zatsuei Haiku of Merit
Neo-Classical Haiku Category
Note:
I was happy to receive a note regarding "ice fog" from an'ya, the publisher of my first haiku. There is only a single word difference between our haiku, though they were written 11 years apart...
"Great minds think alike Debbie! We must have been sisters in a previous life. Debbie, unlike others in our haiku world, I have never believed in deja-ku, and am honored that we shared virtually the same moment."
The exact situation subsequently arose with my work, and I responded to it with an'ya's kind and generous outlook on this common occurrence. I like to call these incidents "mind melds"! Since I began my haiku journey in 2013, I have discovered how lovely it is to know that we are connected by shared experiences.
Welcome to this archive of my published poetry, photography and art. Thank you for allowing me to share my creative passions with you, and for taking the time to visit. Please be kind, and do not copy any of the content on this site without permission and attribution. All rights reserved © Debbie Strange. I unfold my origami self / and swim into a lake of fire / washing my hair in ashes / the crane-legged words / of a thousand burning poems.
- Archive
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- A Year Unfolding: Haiku
- Mouth Full of Stones: Haikai eBook
- Prairie Interludes: Haiku eChapbook
- Random Blue Sparks: Haiku
- The Language of Loss: Haiku & Tanka Conversations
- Three-Part Harmony: Tanka Verses
- Warp and Weft: Tanka Threads
Sunday, January 24, 2016
Muse India, Issue 65, January - February 2016
Englyn, Issue One, January 2016
The last leaves of autumn
are sighing, sighing.
I sigh, too, when I think
of all the times I should have let go.
The silken water slips quietly
over stone shoulders.
If you listen deeply,
you will hear the night undressing.
The great blue king on unfurled wing,
sails through mackerel sky,
to alight once more upon shingled shore,
with strident, raucous cry.
At the dentist's office,
collywobbles distract me
from the war being waged
in the blood of my mouth
She is Sweet Sixteen.
Wherever she goes,
bouquets of small children
cling to her like butterflies.
are sighing, sighing.
I sigh, too, when I think
of all the times I should have let go.
The silken water slips quietly
over stone shoulders.
If you listen deeply,
you will hear the night undressing.
The great blue king on unfurled wing,
sails through mackerel sky,
to alight once more upon shingled shore,
with strident, raucous cry.
At the dentist's office,
collywobbles distract me
from the war being waged
in the blood of my mouth
She is Sweet Sixteen.
Wherever she goes,
bouquets of small children
cling to her like butterflies.
Saturday, January 23, 2016
Vancouver Cherry Blossom Festival, Haiku Invitational, 2015
gone too soon
sakura blossoms
my old friends
Sakura Award, Canada
sakura blossoms
my old friends
Sakura Award, Canada
NeverEnding Story, December 2015
Translated into Chinese by Chen-ou Liu
she hides
the family photographs
in memory's drawer
at our next visit
we find ourselves missing
The Bamboo Hut, 1:2, January 2014
Chen-ou's comments:
Modeled on traditional Japanese tanka, this heartfelt tanka is made up of five poetic phrases/ku (prosodic units) and structured into two parts where reveals not only the devastating consequences of the illness/dementia but also the different forms of patient's cognitive impairment ("family photographs/in "memory's drawer" vs "at "our next visit"/we find "ourselves missing").
she hides
the family photographs
in memory's drawer
at our next visit
we find ourselves missing
The Bamboo Hut, 1:2, January 2014
Chen-ou's comments:
Modeled on traditional Japanese tanka, this heartfelt tanka is made up of five poetic phrases/ku (prosodic units) and structured into two parts where reveals not only the devastating consequences of the illness/dementia but also the different forms of patient's cognitive impairment ("family photographs/in "memory's drawer" vs "at "our next visit"/we find "ourselves missing").
A Hundred Gourds, Issue 5:1, December 2015
thunderheads
a squabble of crows
in the larch
antelope
grazing on sagebrush
at first light
the horizon stitched
to an infinitude of sky
I squeeze the sun
between my index finger
and my thumb
until the last drop of light
is swallowed by the water
a squabble of crows
in the larch
antelope
grazing on sagebrush
at first light
the horizon stitched
to an infinitude of sky
I squeeze the sun
between my index finger
and my thumb
until the last drop of light
is swallowed by the water
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