Home > Collected Poems > Recent Poems

Recent Poems

haiga, musical colors
by Alan Harris

Buy now, and forever comes free.

Checkered Opus is the previous "Recent Poems" collection.

Haiku with a View

The page below contains many haiga.
A haiga is a haiku (5-7-5 syllables) embedded in a photo.


(Click on any divider between poems to return here.)

Out in back last night
Icicle drippings
Lazy snow circles
Western glow fading
Who times Time?
Stark in winter's wind
depth of azure sky
tried to buy the sun
Each leaf is a life
Like a demagogue
Sooner or later
If the sun could speak
musical colors
mountaintop vision
silent catheral
no smoke now rises
flowers stand sentry
first sun of spring floats
thunderbolts today
A falling fall leaf
Orange maple leaves
Sitting by flowers
Glued by gravity
Trouble at the trunk
Gnarled persistent tree
Full moon through the trees
All roads out are blocked
Leaden clouds rumble
Opening their hearts
Come Home to Christmas
Ball Game
To Be a Butterfly
What To Do

haiga, Out in back last night

haiga, Icicle drippings

haiga, Lazy snow circles

haiga, Western glow fading

haiga, Who times Time?

haiga, near tilted tombstones

haiga, depth of azure sky

haiga, buy sun

haiga, each leaf

haiga, demagogue

haiga, purpose in life

haiga, if the sun could speak

haiga, musical colors

haiga, mountaintop vision

haiga, silent cathedral

haiga, no smoke rises

haiga, flowers stand sentry

haiga, first sun of spring floats

haiga, thunderbolts today

haiga, a falling fall leaf

haiga, orange maple leaves

haiga, sitting by flowers

haiga, glued by gravity

haiga, trouble at the trunk

haiga, gnarled persistent tree

haiga, full moon through the trees

haiga, all roads out are blocked

haiga, leaden clouds rumble

haiga, opening their hearts

Come Home to Christmas

If worldly searching brings no lasting joy
or grasping ego causes loss of friends,
come home to Christmas.

If monetary loss appears long-term
or health is gone and only pain remains,
come home to Christmas.

If grief or sadness overwhelms your soul
for no one can replace a loved one lost,
come home to Christmas.

If winter in your life hides warmer times
and no one seems to feel the cold you feel,
come home to Christmas.

If family has disappeared from view
and memories offer nothing but a void,
come home to Christmas.

It is an inner place where calm awaits—
a comforting and ease for misery.
Come home to Christmas.

PDF for printing

Above poem is included in
Christmas Reflections


Floating on this inner river
	Surface always supporting

Not needing oars or rudder

	Inward becoming onward

Glancing against soft bank

	Returning now to center

Moving always forward

	Assuming no destination

No one giving guidance

	Fragrance wafting in

Effects unveiling causes

	Shadows weaving slowly

Friends seen floating by

	Saluting and passing on

Permanence giving way

	Memories all smoothing

Keeping in and keeping on

	Down merging with up

Dreaming hidden ocean

PDF for printing

Ball Game

He came home from school and slammed the front door
from habit.
“Mom,” he called.
“Where's my baseball and bat and glove?’
“I don’t know. You’ll have to look for them.”

He rummaged in the kitchen closet for a minute or two
then walked heavily across the kitchen.

“Did you find them?” he heard from upstairs.
“Yes, Mom.  Thanks.”

He walked out the back door empty-handed
and walked due north for what seemed to be
two or three hours.

He kept his path as straight as he could
and climbed over fences
and other obstacles.
He even swam across a creek or two—
or waded, one.

He sort of flapped his arms and sort of flew up
above the whole town and sort of looked around
and was glad that he could fly and no one else could.

But then all of a sudden
the novelty sort of fell off the whole thing

so he flew down
and landed in the back yard
and walked into the house
and slammed the back door sort of hard

and she said
did you have a good game
and he said yes.


When fall falls in,
Nature's eyes grow dimmer
into the sleep of winter.
Does anyone think to ask "Why?"

Oh, you say, the earth's axis is
23 degrees tilted, and as it
revolves around the sun,
the seasons cycle.

But why 23 degrees?
What tipped the earth?

Are people tipped 23 degrees inside,
causing hot and cold emotions?
Are our dreams for the future
tipped 23 degrees from coming true?
Does our day tip 23 degrees
before evening?

Nothing seems exact on this
physical plane, nor is it
exact on the mental plane.

Exact triangles are hollow.
Exact circles become spirals.
If I try to think straight,
I'm about 23 degrees off,
tipped to the side by self.

But whatever created 23 degrees,
bless fall and its beautiful falling in.

To Be a Butterfly


A new monarch
just out of its cocoon
flits over the yard
over the city park
over sweet marigolds 
over two boys playing catch
over a white-haired man
working on his 1966 Chevy
over an Amway salesman
with his bulging briefcase

back and fitfully forth
dodging into a rose bush
sipping necessary nectar
flying quickly up again
over lawns and fences

never to be seen twice
by surprised admirers
along its jerky flight
to a final destination
farther away than
anyone can imagine


The universe turns
   over in its sleep and dreams
      a trillion "big bangs."

What To Do

Place your center
in the Center—
the who-most
of your core
in the God-most
of the Cosmos
for the Now-most
of Forever.


From ego-egg of
   separateness we someday
      hatch because we must.


Dogs fuss with their beds—
   people take out mortgages—
      for a place to sleep.


Full moon through the trees
   reflects the Lord of Being—
      some just think it's neat.

Previous Poetry Collection:
Checkered Opus (2008-2016)
Poetry Home Page Next Collection:
Gallery of Photographic Offerings