wild geese

wild geese

our mothers

calling us home 

I'm very happy that this haiku was chosen for the fall issue of Acorn haiku journal. I love their format—so solid and simple and easy to hold. I had such a wonderful conversation, via email, with editor Sue Antolin about haiku in general and this haiku in particular, that I decided to include it here:

Dear Holli,

Thank you for your submission. I am delighted to accept for the fall issue of Acorn your haiku:

wild geese
our mothers
calling us home 

I keep returning to this one. It seems that depending on the reader, one might associate the sound of the wild geese with the mothers' voices but also with the sounds of kids playing. And there's just something lovely about that last line, "calling us home," that almost implies a spiritual meaning as well. An excellent haiku!

All best wishes,

Sue

Thank you so much, Sue! I'm honored to be included. 🙏🏼 I like that one too. It's funny because when it came to me, it was the sound of the mother's voices I was hearing, but you are right, the wild geese could also be the sound of children at play. I was remembering being a kid and hearing my mother calling us in for supper, such a comforting memory. 

Also influencing this haiku is Mary Oliver's "Wild Geese" poem, which I memorized several years ago. I often recite it to myself when I can't sleep. I love the idea that the wild geese are "announcing your place in the family of things." This is one of the main reasons I write haiku, to experience and pay attention to how everything truly is connected and how wonderful it is to be part of this big family. 

In that way, you are also correct about the spiritual meaning of "calling us home." I think I was trying to get at the idea that if I listen to the geese (or the cherry blossom or the small stone or the red oak), they will have something important to tell me and they can help me "overcome my illusion of separateness" as Thich Nhat Hanh would say. This is actually something that my mom taught me as well. 

So Mary Oliver, Thich Nhat Hanh, my mom, and the geese are all calling me home, giving me guidance to my true nature where I am part of things and no longer have to bear the burden of dominion over things. For this I certainly need the raucous and insistent call of the wild goose, which is a Celtic symbol for the holy spirit, as it happens. When my boys were young, whenever the wild geese would fly over, honking, the boys would stop what they were doing and look up or go outside to catch a glimpse of them. That's what I need. Something that can get me to look up from my phone or the day's headlines and remind me what's real.  

All of that crammed in only 9 syllables! 😉 Ahh, the magic of haiku! 

Thanks again!

Holli

Hi Holli,

Wow! You express it all so beautifully! I don't know if you write essays, but it feels like you have a lovely essay lurking in there about the magic of haiku to capture so much in so few words. I love Mary Oliver's poem, too. And I love the way you describe the desire to feel your connectedness to the world. I am so moved. Truly.

Thank you for sharing this with me. This is what makes the job of editing so rewarding.

With gratitude,

Sue

Thanks so much for your kind words, Sue. I was a little worried about saying too much and taking up too much of your time. I can go on and on sometimes. LoL. In fact, writing haiku is a good discipline for me because it forces me to get down to the bare bones and trust the reader to fill in the rest. 😉 Thank you for reading, responding, and encouraging.

I feel like I should share this with you since it landed in my inbox yesterday and adds another dimension to this topic, the idea of interbeing and the way it connects us to the earth and to each other. 

Cheers,

Holli

From the Center for Action and Contemplation 9/4/24: 

Author bell hooks (1952–2021) describes how her childhood in the Kentucky hills instructed her in the spiritual lesson of interbeing: 

Growing up in a world where my grandparents did not hold regular jobs but made their living digging and selling fishing worms, growing food, raising chickens, I was ever mindful of an alternative to the capitalist system that destroyed nature’s abundance. In that world I learned experientially the concept of interbeing, which Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh talks about as that recognition of the connectedness of all human life.   

That sense of interbeing was once intimately understood by black folks in the agrarian South. Nowadays it is only those who maintain our bonds to the land, to nature, who keep our vows of living in harmony with the environment, who draw spiritual strength from nature…. It is nature that reminds time and time again that “this too will pass.” To look upon a tree, or a hilly waterfall, that has stood the test of time can renew the spirit. To watch plants rise from the earth with no special tending reawakens our sense of awe and wonder.

bell hooks, Belonging: A Culture of Place (New York: Routledge, 2009), 118–119. 

Hi Holli,

Thank you for sharing this with me! bell hooks is so good. Isn't it just magical the way your haiku contains so much within it?! The best haiku are like that. You could read it and breeze right by or you can pause and find so much meaning. I think it depends on where the reader is in their life. I lost my mother last summer and am especially moved now by poems mentioning mothers. And I seem to live right along the flight path of geese that head to their evening spot with a lot of loud honking. You've made new connections for me with the sound of the geese. Thank you for your poem and for your generous sharing of your thoughts and bell hooks' writing on interbeing. It's such a rich topic! 

All best wishes,

Sue

total eclipse

 

I'm very pleased to get this haiku out into the world! Thank you to Randy and Shirley Brooks for including it in the summer issue of Mayfly! 

total eclipse 

shining around me 

these upturned faces

We're not that far from eclipse totality, but the skies were supposed to be cloudy and not knowing what the traffic would be like or what my energy would be like, we didn't make any plans. But on April 8 I was feeling okay and the skies were clear, at least for the time being, so we just got in the car and drove to our favorite little restaurant in Baltic for lunch and then meandered through Amish country to a town called Wooster that's about an hour away. We thought we might go to the library but we saw people gathering on the street corners in town where they have little "parklets" and there were empty chairs, so we just parked our car and shared a table with "Ed and Pat from Strasburg." LoL. It was fun. The kind of shared experience where strangers become friends. I've included pictures of the courthouse before and during. The darkness was crazy! The sight of the diamond ring portion of the eclipse was absolutely amazing and sent up cheers from the crowd. Afterwards we all lingered for a bit, not wanting it to end. It was a beautiful day to be out and about in this wonderful world with my fellow humans, especially my darling person.

Facing Goodbye

 

I am very happy that one of my poems was included in this brand new anthology called Facing Goodbye. This collection of poems brings together over 90 international voices, each with their unique take on the multifaceted theme of ‘goodbye.’ 💙✋🏼🌐✍🏼💙

My poem, a haiku sequence, is about saying goodbye to Mary Oliver. When she died, I pulled out several volumes of her poetry and let them fall open where they would. I found much comfort and solace in her words and images. Each haiku in my poem references at least one, sometimes two of her poems. It's just me following her bread crumbs. She is just up ahead on the path, wearing her old boots and her torn coat, rejoicing about one thing and another, teaching me how to love the world, and telling me how it is that we live forever. 🥾💛🦋🌻✨

Sticks For the Nest

(after Mary Oliver)

swan moon

the black and white

of her death poem

night river 

drifting in and out

of metaphors

waking

in the forest

my trillium nature

the journey

to save my life

her old boots

poet's notebook

a songbird gathers sticks

for the nest

this body home

between earth and heaven

red bird's ease

between

angels and egrets 

the gray area

her long devotion

the back-breaking work

of sprouting wings

✨✨✨

Many thanks to Jane Hanson @pets_love_art1 and Mirjam Mahler @mirhamwrites for editing and curating this volume for The Wee Sparrow Poetry Press . The front cover features gorgeous artwork by Jane Hanson. The anthology´s beautiful foreword is by Ellen Rowland @rowland.ellen. It contains original illustrations by Scottish artist, Colin Thom. ✍🏼🎨🐦

All proceeds from sales of this anthology are donated to the International Rescue Committee a charity dedicated to people displaced as result of conflict, persecution and crisis. 🕊️🌍🕊️🌎🕊️🌏🕊️

Founded by Claire Thom, The Wee Sparrow Poetry Press is an indie publisher which creates poetry anthologies and digital zines. 

100% of the proceeds from sales of all their anthologies is donated to charity. ✨🐦🌱

Get your copy today! ✨✋🏼🪶https://www.amazon.com/Facing-Goodbye-Sparrow-Poetry-Press/dp/8409625369

The Midwest Haiku Traveling Rock Garden

 I'm very pleased to have one of my haiku included in The Midwest Haiku Traveling Rock Garden. The brainchild of fellow Ohio haiku poet, Matthew Markworth, The Midwest Haiku Traveling Rock Garden is a growing literary exhibit of previously-published haiku that celebrates English-language haiku. Thematically, it portrays images one may encounter in the Midwest.

Forty haiku were chosen for this first installation of the rock garden. I think forty more will be chosen next year. It's such a a cool idea. The rocks are small enough to fit in your hands, but hefty enough to give weight to these ephemeral poems. A poem in hand. A poem in the landscape. Poems that can be picked up or arranged on a table or on the floor and walked around or tucked under a hosta leaf or stacked like a cairn. The possibilities are endless! 

And stay tuned because The Haiku Traveling Rock Garden is coming to the Johnson- Humrickhouse Museum in 2025!

The Sun and Moon

the sun and moon

if I could choose

his first tattoo 

This is my first outing in Modern Haiku and I even made it to the 'Sample' page. It was a personal goal of mine to be published in Heron's Nest, Mayfly, and Modern Haiku. Somehow in my mind this felt like the trifecta that would prove to me that I know what I'm doing with regards to haiku. And now I've done it! 

This little ku is dedicated to my 3 sons who make my life so bright. I would give each of them the sun and the moon if I could. As it happens, my middle son's first tattoo features a crescent moon, which I like much better than the octopus tattoo he teased me about getting. My oldest son's first and probably only tattoo is the logo of the Mohican 100 Mile Trail Run which features a rising sun. He got the tattoo despite his fear of needles, after completing his 10th year and earning his 1000 mile belt buckle. My youngest son's first tattoo is a small AT for the Appalachian Trail that he hiked as a teenager, under the watchful gaze of the sun by day and the moon by night.

So this is not a "desk haiku," one that I made up in my imagination. This haiku is a bonus reward for having the privilege of raising three great human beings. Being their mom was almost as easy as falling off a log. 🤔 Hmmm, maybe there's another haiku in there somewhere. 🪵✍🏼😆

Gabe the oldest, Michael the youngest, Daniel the middlest 

cardinal call

 

I was pleased to make my debut in Wales Haiku Journal with this cardinal ku. This one came to me during the winter of 2022. For the season of Advent I went outside each morning to see the sunrise and practice Zhan Zhuang "standing like a tree," a traditional qigong stance. You stand with your feet hips distance apart facing forward and your knees slightly bent as you hold your arms in a relaxed circle as if you are holding a beach ball or hugging a tree. Then you relax your shoulders and let your elbows be lower than your wrists. The point of the exercise is to relax into the stance and allow the qi to circulate smoothly and freely through your body and to allow the qi to hold you, rather than relying on muscle strength. Easier said than done! In the picture below you may be able to see the small spruce tree I am standing in front of and the larger spruce a little further away in the woods. As I stood and breathed, I imagined exchanging qi, oxygen, and carbon dioxide with these trees who are both former Christmas trees. 

One morning as I was standing with my granddog Gus, breathing and communing, (and, on Gus's part, waiting patiently for the walk that would follow) the red pin prick of the sun came up on the horizon just as a cardinal called nearby. It was as if the cardinal summoned the sun or the sun summoned the cardinal. Either way, I was there to witness it and to respond to the summons by capturing this sacred moment with a few humble syllables. 🌲🌄♥️❄️

Photo by Kevin from the kitchen window 

I Thought I Heard a Cardinal Sing

 

Photo by Peggy Rowan 

Saturday, October 15, 2022 was a very special day for me. As program coordinator at the Johnson-Humrickhouse Museum, I got to host the finale of the 8 month long book launch tour of I Thought I Heard a Cardinal Sing: Ohio's Appalachian Voices. And as one of the poets included in the anthology, I got to share the mic with about 15 other Ohio poets. 

Kari Gunter-Seymour 

The anthology was edited by Kari Gunter-Seymour, Ohio's Poet Laureate 2020-2024. It was published by Sheila-Na-Gig Editions. It was made possible by the Academy of American Poets with funds from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation. A special feature of this project is that copies of the anthology were donated to each public library in Ohio, so it's available to everyone. You can also purchase a copy here.

From Kari's introduction: 

I Thought I Heard A Cardinal Sing, Ohio's Appalachian Voices is a collection of poetry focused specifically on the unique cultural experiences of poets located in or connected to Ohio (Central) Appalachia. Within these pages you will find a lavish mix—Affrilachian, Indigenous, non-binary and LGBTQ; from teens to those creatively aging; poets in recovery, some differently-abled or with developmental differences; emerging and well established; some living in the state, others from assorted locations throughout the country-all with a deep connection to Appalachian Ohio.

People often forget and many do not even know that nearly 1/4 of the state of Ohio rests inside Appalachia proper, and pockets of Appalachian families who migrated generations ago prominently exist throughout the state, still firmly attached to their Appalachian roots.

In my case, I am a 9th generation Appalachian. My parents both grew up in West Virginia and I was born there, but my growing up years were spent in the suburbs of piedmont North Carolina. My husband (who also has Appalachian roots, his in the mountains of North Carolina) and I wanted our children to grow up in a place where they could roam in the woods, play in the creek, and eat apples right off the tree. This desire led us in a round-about way to Coshocton County where we settled in 1994. 

But I'm not the first in my family tree to live in Appalachian Ohio. My 3rd great grandfather, Patrick McCan graduated from Starling Medical College (now The Ohio State University) in about 1851. He and his wife, Isabella (Geary), lived in Meigs County Ohio for a time, where five of their fifteen children were born, including my great-great-grandmother, Martha Ellen. Patrick served as a doctor in the Civil War and family legend has it that he and Isabella had something to do with the Underground Railroad. There's no way to prove this definitively, but it is written up in a local history book, and their proximity to the Ohio River would certainly have made this possible. It always meant a lot to me and had an impact on my life. In honor of this family heritage, we gave our third son, Michael, the name McCann as a middle name. (Patrick and Isabella's children changed the spelling by adding the extra n to McCann.) And it was a great privilege to share this gig with Michael McCann, who grew up to be a poet! 

Michael, photographed by his father who likes owls. 

The gallery where the reading was held contained an exhibit of art created by the Coshocton Art Guild, so it truly was an afternoon to celebrate Appalachian Ohio art!

Michael and me

A list of the poets who participated 

A packed house for poetry! We had to bring in extra chairs!

Robin Mullet, fellow Coshocton Countian and my co-author of The Curve of Her Arm. Such fun to read with her again in this room.

Kari snapped this picture of me during my welcome. It looks like I'm praying but I'm just inviting everyone to take a deep breath, which is often the same thing. 

Welcome and Gratitude

to all who are here

To Mother Earth in all her Autumn Splendor

To the Ancestors who are Still

and Always with us

To the Poets—see what your

  Scribblings have wrought!?

To Those Who Support the Arts

  by attending poetry readings and plays 

  and concerts and exhibits

  and by reading books—

  especially the Banned Ones 

  The world wouldn't be the same without you!

To Kari Gunter-Seymour, Maker and Midwife of Poetry without whom none of us would be here

And to Red Bird who is "the music of our hearts

  that we wanted and needed"

Welcome and Gratitude

  to All who are here!

My friend and Michael's "other mother," Nancy, surprised us by showing up and then staying after to help wash dishes. 

A delightful repast 

Not pictured is my colleague, Chyanne Foster, who helped set up, tear down, serve refreshments, and take pictures. Thanks, Chyanne! Also not pictured is Kevin, my darling person, who counted heads, set up extra chairs, and also took pictures. Thanks, Hon!

As I am posting this, it is more than a year since this event happened, so I'm going to go ahead and post my poem. I hope that's cool. Normally I would say, if you want to read my poem, buy the book! But what the hey, maybe you'll buy the book to read all the other fabulous poems. 

My poem, which is technically a haibun (a Japanese literary form combining prose or a prose poem with haiku), is based on a true experience. When I worked at the Coshocton Public Library, I often took a walk on my lunch hour and on this particular day I was thinking about the book we were reading for Monday Book Talk, a book discussion group I had the privilege of leading for 12 years. The book was The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery. I loved that book and still think about it often. Part of what's going on in the poem, which is only evident to someone who has read the book, but is not necessary to appreciate the poem, is the contrast in settings, the novel being set in Paris and the poem in Appalachian Ohio. Home is home, wherever you might land.

Walking Down Main Street after Reading The Elegance of the Hedgehog

"The Journal of the Movement of the World will be devoted, therefore, to the movement of people, bodies, or even... things, and finding whatever is beautiful enough to give life meaning"-Paloma Josse

Walking down Main Street the other day, 

I noticed a barber in his shop 

brushing stray hairs from his customer's neck. He performed the movement with a flourish—like I imagine an artist signing her name to a painting that pleases her.

And he was laughing as he did it, 

as if the end of the haircut was punctuated by the punch line of a good joke.

     

the smell of witch hazel 

when the door opens 

a tinkling bell

His movement and his laughter caused me to stop for a moment, 

to bask in the afterglow of a job well done. 

How many hundreds of necks has he brushed? How many jokes has he heard?
But he seemed so present to this neck and this joke, 

as if he had all the time in the world and could think of no place 

he'd rather be than in his orderly and well-lit shop.

basement apartment 

a sunflower stuck 

in a Sun Drop bottle

As I paused, another movement caught my eye.
The dry leaves at my feet were swirling on the sidewalk 

with the same flourish as the barber's brush. And then the most amazing movement of all. 

My scattered thoughts folded their wings and came to rest.

They had been off in another place, fluttering among pandemics and world peace and what to fix for dinner.

autumn wind

leafing through

a stack of books

The Way of Consonance, Paloma. Just like you said. 

When everything comes together in harmony.

Like when a dancer, after all those hours of rehearsal, is finally in perfect sync with the music but neither she nor the audience is quite aware of it until the movement stops and the music ends and all that's left is silence

and the beating of hearts.

approaching siren

a rose petal drops

to the counter

Later that evening, as I made soup for my family, I practiced holding the wooden spoon with the confidence and presence

of a painter or a barber holding a brush, 

and as I stirred, I paid attention to the smells, colors, and textures—not wishing to be someplace else or to get on to the next thing. 

And I wondered if this would cause leaves to swirl outside my window. 

And I wondered whether my neighbor, who might be walking past at that moment,

would stop and notice the swirling leaves 

and whether she might feel, not quite knowing why, like dancing.

sparrow

here on the sidewalk

where we both landed

—Holli Rainwater

And here is one of Michael's poems. He had two in the anthology, but if you want to read his other one, you'll have to buy a copy or check it out from your local library. I'm including this one because it is also haibunesque and also because it mentions his Mom. 

Going Home Again

That tractor over there—

turtle of the hill—

keeps rumbling rumbling. 

Bring the fields in and hang them up to dry. 

Long rows of deep huskbrown remembering.

Five years removed, 

not every mum will know frost.

I passed down this road many times as a boy. 

The one that winds by my mother's red house. Testing the waters of one journey or another. Always returning to the safe halo of the barn light casting shadows and a warm analog glow upon the gravel driveway.

Crickets in the tall grass 

around the water pump.

Years have passed now without me knowing—my face is bristled, my head shaved. 

Staring down a different road, this one paved and strange, far from my mother's red house. Another passing white line, 

October drawing closer. 

Following the north birds south, dusting 

a winding line back to familiar fires.

I have many friends, but all at home and mostly in cities. 

Alone on a ridge, 

the floating world cackles. 

Mountains sag into valleys.

In the needles of a spruce, 

evening dew.

—Michael Rainwater 

And just as a little coda to this happy day, as I was working on this post all these months later, we were in the midst of a big snowfall. I took a break from working and looked out the window and saw this!  A flock of poets in the snow. 

❤️❄️❤️

"Out Here in the Fields"

We always came back to the song we were singing.

                                           —Paul McCartney

Photo courtesy of Jake Hopping, I think. 

When I do breathwork under the guidance of my son Daniel , I often have a recurring experience, kind of a waking dream, or a deep dive into my "inner imaginarium" that goes like this:

I'm in a field and there's a huge tent surrounded by trampled grass. It's a dark night but lights have been strung overhead. People are milling about and leaning against cars, talking quietly and laughing in that companionable way that comes with long association. I don't know if they are waiting for something to begin or if they are lingering after it has ended. 

I don't have a ticket, but I lift the tent flap and go in anyway. Sam Adams, a young friend and musician who died in a car wreck a number of years ago, is there to greet me. "Come on in, we've been waiting for you!" We hug. It's dim inside and crowded. There's a stage but no one is on it right now. Over the loudspeakers Ray Charles is singing "Come Rain or Come Shine."

In the audience, everyone is laughing and greeting each other—a lot of back slapping and hugging going on. As my eyes adjust, I begin to recognize some of them. Elvis is here and Johnny Cash. Roy Orbison and Nina Simone. Patti Smith and Keith Moon. The Johns—Lennon and Bonham. Aretha and Emmylou. B. B. King and Bono. Nanci Griffith and John Prine. Clarence White and Jimi Hendrix. And Josh is here too. And Kirk. And my other brothers. And my sons. And Kevin. The living and the dead. 

Not everyone here is a musician, but we're all here because of the music. Because we've been saved by it at one time or another. And I understand again that it's not about the hereafter, but the here and now. The lilies of the field and the poems made of grass.  And I have the thought, "So this is where they come to get it. The music." This is where it begins, and there's no end in sight. And I feel a great gladness and a deep peace. Like everything is just as it should be. Like everyone here has found a way home. 

first light in the meadow

mockingbird takes it

from the top

Listen to the Mockingbird. Roland White and Friends: A Tribute to the Kentucky Colonels, 2018. Featuring Josh Haddix on guitar.

Baba O'Riley. The Who. Filmed at Shepperton Studios, 1978.

The Song We Were Singing (re-mastered 2020). Paul McCartney. Flaming Pie, 1997.

Come Rain or Come Shine. Ray Charles. The Definitive Ray Charles, 2001.

Trouble in the Fields. Nanci Griffith. One Fair Summer Evening, 1988.

Words in Bloom

black-eyed Susans

just beginning to bloom

her crow's feet

 "Words in Bloom: A Year of Haiku," a collaboration between the Haiku Society of America and Chicago Botanic Garden. My poem was one of the ones chosen to appear in the Native Plant area. 

I actually welcomed my crow's feet when they first began to appear. I thought they gave me some cred. My life was beginning to leave its tracks on my face and I liked the look. The bloom of middle age when women are hitting their stride. Watch out!

Thanks to Julie Schwerin, master organizer of this project and to Tia Haynes for sharing her photos. Congratulations to my fellow poets--I am honored to be here in the garden with you! 🍃🌻☀️🌦️🤗

new moon

 new moon

reading the faces

behind the masks

My entry in the HSA 2020 Anthology.  Bryan Rickert did a great job editing this edition.

Red Moon Anthology 2020

 

hollyhocks

the tall girl in the back row

blooming

From the back cover:  The Red Moon Anthology of English Language Haiku, [edited by Jim Kacian and the Red Moon Editorial Staff], each year assembles the finest haiku and related forms published around the world into a single book. . . .

Needless to say, I am deeply honored to be included.