haiku, haikoan/queries, and tiny poems by Grant Hackett
what comes to light when rain begins to weep
what is the fate of a wind that clings to small things
for how many lifetimes shall the green heart beat
empty hands
hold me above
a wind of unknown depth
an empty glass :: it blocks my view
there is evidence of sky in us
knowing the road has injured my soul
peace where waves gathering dissolve
the mirrors of her life grow stiff
wooden chairs from barefoot children
a dark mouth on either side of the wound
put the car in a pit, it
is time to go—
a crust of bread
works slowly to blind
mourners have lost their way to the grave
and the dead waiting
for his death to be put underground
how grave is the feast of the diminished garden
how many lives know the solstice of ruin
when soldiers toy with saviors, who dies
sunset, i drink the windows just :: like a Hopper she said
whatever you carry the sky is huge
as each stone leaves my hand, it :: balances on the one below
why are we so rarely flower :: to face with joy
from the moth a feathering :: of nakedness
listen to the islands, we :: become ocean by degrees
there are planets in her :: steps, oiled and pearly
the garden exactly our :: bed's shadow
the pearl that draws you :: unclasped
stop because a :: dead branch goes through it
completing a weed :: forests urge silence
bird without a sky :: she cannot arrive
death of the prairies is also :: a man
who wrote this :: her mind must be all around
here is my father :: hiding the universe
life, leave me untitled :: encourage my sound
walnut, put :: our leaves out first
soul's small lion :: sparrow
crickets, it :: should be obvious
is there a thread on the water where we can meet
is there blood where hopelessness ends
how many shall the doves strip of their skin
use a sweet knife, love, where i am lost
stranger things come to pass than standing in line for time
full of the useless
yet i pull a few weeds
study knots on the faces of trees
warm sun on an april stone no heavier than a spiral
witnessed by watery light that is never not here
you shall appear and reappear
and i shall awaken
wash peace from your words
launch a maelstrom
walk through the split in your soul
like something yellow you would do :: daffodil
blood in the river
blood in the breeze
the safest place to be is lost
a man leans toward earth
she listens begins
dropping blossoms
apple blossoms weighted
with snow
they ask me where we are going
thinned by mist
the mountain grows tired
grass quietly eating rain
snowflakes :: staying in touch after death
the long sentence of the voice at three in the morning, blameless
o keeper of darkness, don't we walk into life through parallel doors
a man breaks down, but i don't speak about the weight of the stone
the cherry blossom
you held out
was you
poems just published in tiny wren lit (issue 6) and chrysanthemum (issue 32)!
wind blows my fingers off
small fossils
free of mind
emerging
from a random sky
a withered tree
a child and his face
have all the light
the sea lies flat
five monostich:
the long limbs of human light ascending
a face without eyes the moon spills its sand
an audience reading around the desk of solitude
empty chairs in a cornfield a birthing begins
coming home to the guardian stone
an old rain is staring out the window
high in the winter trees
my garden has built a nest
spring rain :: fat stones
within an earlier melody
unknown outside the dream
are the lands i am and will learn to perceive
whose expanse of lake is sane enough
to receive the grace
of winter geese
being asleep while two calling owls speak the language of night
rain's rhythm
dawn chorus
the river begins
afraid of the eclipse :: i was right to be
droning engines die
wind sound
vast
death of the sun
tomorrow, eclipse
shadow of man, of moon
blue-green lichen
on rain-darkened trees
journal of dreams
in the last car of the train
nodding asleep, holding the way home
open
a rainbow
to end the day—
three journeys in last night's sleep
three monostich:
dreaming snow last night in different lives
the same bed years apart restored from ashes
small beginning dropped in the night in the soil
doves are nesting in a yard i've stopped speaking to
opened the window
dropped an ant
into spring
no mountains here
—what is higher
than thunder
geese flying
a pair—
no gazing at the sky
in a sweet scented breeze
i don't know
whose petals
using a mourning dove's coo
to quiet
my ears
lost the moon
behind a pine
so the day begins
long wings
climbing a thermal
virgin sky
rainy skies
flowers sleep
hazy moon
flowers dream
kneeling
hands in mud
restoring water to flow
eaves drip
dripping
the swollen heavens dry
mixing vinegar and water
before easter
snow squalls
with stems that stood
through winter—
here i'll plant my life
the wind
the house
i listen to them moan
the sun is warm
the windflowers will
lift their heads
under heaven's freedom
to be stormy or clear
wearing my black beret
equinox
the widower has grown
a new beard
dead branches
my living hands
breaking
picking up the dollar
someone dropped
a buddhist nun walks by
morning with
a killing frost
she prefers my naked face
pine forests i cannot see from
ohio
the sky reaches there
limbs that walk
limbs that grow
three old oaks and i
sky and winds loud and restless all day about money
releasing water from a stagnant pool i look within
a moonless night
my neighbor's light
all this hurry to die
a pregnant moon
we
climb into bed together
killed
on the road
i have no heart for travel
morning sky
evening of my life—
receive the waxing moon
a quick thunderstorm has left me rushing
shuffles away in his body
bends
a tree
white orchids
yellowing—
i have an appointment to be cured
away, alone
a gravel road
blackbirds chattering
an early windflower
white
where snow never fell
sharing last night's
dreams
dawn bleeds
to avoid my hands
an injured finch
flutters from death on the road
for pine cones swept to an asphalt fate i grieve
blue umbrella
broken rib
cloudless skies
even the old orchard
turns death
into grass
sawing downed limbs into rolls of thunder
tracing wounds
across the spiraling sky
fallen tree and i
plundering an abandoned nest
one crow
death
within
the paper lantern
storm-darkened ohio night
the artist
sheds
his clay
coming up from the basement to a house still standing
flow of clouds beyond the bough of a newly dead tree
in the warmth of the sun i offer the sun my warmth
the way forward
lonely day
drone of a small plane
the sidewalk is empty and i am alive