Angel’s face I saw/
wings toward California./
I dreamed of her once.

OR

Angel’s face I see/
wings through Cali without me./
I dreamed of her once.

My dad said something in a Church meeting about tithing. It caught me off guard, but was so profound I captured it and put it into a haiku.

Pay Tithing first. Then,/
you learn how much you don’t miss /
it. That surprised me.

A counted cross stitch hung in our home for years, showing a mother kneeling, playing with her children. It said:
“I hope our children look back on today,
and see a mother who had time to play.
There will be time for washing and cooking,
for children grow up while we’re not looking.”

I wrote this in honor of the mother of my wonderful children:

I hope our children look back on today
and remember their mother, who taught them to pray.

They take time to wander, question and explore as youth,
but you taught them how and where to find real truth.

She probably does/
not know I worry about/
her from miles away.

I’m ravin’ o’er her/
raven-haired beauty ’til her/
skin turns leathery.

Burning my neighbor’s /
brushpile, I singed my chesthairs./
The frigid lake calls.

You’re so temptingly/
continental, my thoughts are/
inconsequential.

If a guy sends a/
girl some pretty flowers does/
that make things better?

Naked, my heart waits/
in the silent dark for the/
call that never comes.

You ask me not to/
write. Stop my fingers moving,/
and my heart beating.