I continue to write a daily haiku for the Haiku Room—there’s something healing, freeing, magical about writing poetry. I ‘ve never, ever, seen myself as a poet. Even as an angst-ridden teenager who wrote the occasional angst-ridden poem, I knew better than to call myself a poet. But this haiku thing—it’s grabbed hold of me and won’t let go. I look forward to reading the new haikus everyone will post each day—I look forward to the ones I will write. I am loving the challenge of distilling whatever is going on with me down to a mere 17 syllables and I revel in the diversity of postings from the 175 members.

Work frustrations, chemo treatments, children, spouses, parents, nature . . . the topics are varied and the haikus raw, refined, polished, tentative. Each day brings a fresh take on life and love. Some of the writers are actual poets, some with published books. Many writers are also teachers, mothers, wives.  There are a smattering of men.

There is a generosity in the Haiku Room, an expansive and welcoming spirit among a group of disparate folks most of whom have never met one another.  I feel so privileged to be among them and each day welcome the glimpses into these other lives.

Here’s a sampling of my submissions for the past month:

I attend haiku church
Words and syllables offered,
Received. Communion.

Fragile, frangible
My heart’s porcelain terrain
Travel gently here

Words fall from my tongue–
Spilt, dance upon this altar
Freely sacrificed

I am astonished–
What lies beneath the surface?
Ask. Answers astound.

Peel words from my tongue
Thoughts stuck in my throat, silence
Masquerades as truth

Last night we poets
Gathered in my dreams, sacred
Space with food and wine

Who lays hands on you
When the world becomes too much?
What eases your aches?

If I run without
My Nike app or Fitbit
Will the miles still count?

Start with I don’t know
Then turn, face those deep kid fears
Pain embraced can heal

What country would you
Find if you traveled through the
Atlas of my heart?

A ribbon of words
Unfurls and I have written
The way to my heart

Feedback hits my veins
Smack for my ego, mainlined
I close my eyes, sigh

If I exhale words
Will you breathe deeply, and find
Tattoos on your heart?

Words spark and ignite
Tender tinder, dry fuel
Strike a careful match

If my choices are
Deadly darkness or white light
I prefer to burn

Poetry becomes
A complicated riddle
Seek simplicity

Words live on my tongue
Like communion, and sweet wine
Come closer, receive

I am amazed, daily, at what the haiku—a mere 17 syllables—brings to my life. Gratitude abounds.