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Raymond Roseliep's Haiku

but, child,
there is no song
in the egg you break

I whispered of death
one winter night in a voice
we both never knew.

horizon
wild swan drifting through
the woman's body

Your death
In the bird loud air
No further word

bathwater
down the drain
some of me

grass
holding the shape
of our night

unable
to get hibiscus red
the artist eats the flower

piano practice
through an open window
the lilac

buttoning his fly
the boy with honeysuckle
clenched in his mouth

in white tulips
the rooster's red head
flowering

brushing my sins
the muscatel breath
of the priest

the cat
lowers his ears
to the master's fart

after Beethoven
he gets the furnace
roaring

white orchid
on her coffin
the pickle lady

tape
recording
mountain silence

in the stream
stones making half
the music

ordering my tombstone
the cutter has me feel
his Gothic "R"

the sailor
peeling potatoes
around himself

pacing
the shore
the ship's cat

flea..
that you
Issa?

light
lights
light

downpour:
my "I-Thou"
T-shirt

swish of cow tail
peach petals
fall

leaving a bookmark
by Issa's wild goose—
to pick wild strawberries

by the autumn hill
my watercolor box
unopened

birthcry!
the stars
are all in place

seance
a white
moth

campfire extinguished,
the woman washing dishes
in a pan of stars

he removes his glove
to point out
Orion

snow
all's
new

the dressmaker
sings and sings,
mouth full of pins

can’t tell
the petal
from the kiss

autumn stillness
the cracks
of your hand

Christmas Eve
butcher’s knives
stop ringing

the firefly you caught
the church you make
with your hands

boiling beet tops
only for the scent
Papa loved

by hearth light
gold the white hair
of his grumbling wife

sitting in air
a crow on something
snowed on

the banker
cancels
a moth

in water
my body
of water

armload of child
unloaded…
the weight of night

the fly rocks
in the spider's hammock
wide awake

the black hen
eating outside
her shadow

I tried to bring you
that one cloud
in this cup of water

with his going
the birds go
nameless

never expecting
the lilies in November
nor the small coffin

closing the blind
against the day:
this light within

telephone wire:
crows are sitting
on her voice

walking in rain
I pass a stranger
I know

for a moment
the spark
is itself

the child is gone
the paper bell he made
cracks the wind

http://www.millikin.edu/haiku/writerprofiles/BorycaOnRoseliep.html
http://www.millikin.edu/haiku/research/RoseliepAmann.html
http://www.millikin.edu/haiku/research/RoseliepYoshino.html