Blithe Spirit exists as a forum for diverse contributions in the writing and appreciation of haiku and kindred forms of verse. It welcomes all related submissions from the membership. The Editors take responsibility for the selection of items for publication and the layout of the magazine. The views expressed in articles do not necessarily reflect the Editors’ own views.

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on my ceiling
circling pools of sunlight –
a fly

	Jon Iddon

								randomly re-strung
								my old necklace
								has a racier motif

									Melissa Meek

  Rocks and heathered cliffs
Glow in the evening sunshine.
    A seal plays with waves.

	Lynne Nesbit

							blade of grass
							held against the wall
							summer breeze

								Michael Fessler

friday again
as I turn the corner
our two smiles meet

	Frank Williams

									out of hours
									the doctor’s
									fixed smile

										Helen Buckingham



	writing up field notes
	in my pocket still
	the perfect skimmer

		David Serjeant

								flight of a kestrel –
								all the pale grasses swept
								in one direction

									Diana Webb



grumpy until breakfast
my great-granddaughter and me
jam on her face

	Kate Hall

							Beyond the curtains
							the sullen ripening
							of an autumn day

								Ken Jones

  Hares on a grass verge
sit under the August moon
    nibbling the bamboo

	J.J.Jarrett

									autumn
									the hum of mowers
									fades away

										Ron Woollard



knotholes in the shed
    small shafts of light
    working through dust

	John Parsons

								my charcoal snaps
								circling her breast;
								she raises an eyebrow

									Andrew Detheridge

sea edge
shape of waves
again fade

	Stanley Pelter

							alone in the woods
							she fingers her wedding ring –
							a tangle of roots

								Claire Knight

    on the heath alone
the dead tree    watched over
    	     by night jars

	John Parsons

								early morning bus—
								yesterday’s idle moments
								still litter the pane

									Andrew Detheridge



a sea haze
dark chocolate melts
on my tongue

	A A Marcoff

									pear harvest over,
									one fieldfare
									still lingering

										Malcolm Williams

	in an autumn sky,
	morning vapour trail –
	& how old your generation

		Francis Gallagher

							          A distillation
							of briny undersea currents:
					     		     Dimitris’ fish soup.

									Matt Simpson

     That old crow cawing
just enough to wake me up
     from autumn dozing

	Bill Wyatt

								blown over the wall
								from cemetery to field
								         an oversized rose

										Maeve O’Sullivan

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						Aikido –
						accepting his force
						to return it


						applying a wrist lock –
						the victim 
						instructs


						always move forward
						the master says –
						even in retreat


						the sword rising
						through its arc
						halves the sky


						through the clash
						of bamboo swords – the voice
						of a small boy

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At the department store the girl in the cash desk runs her eye over the elderly gentleman who is pushing towards her ten bars of chocolate, top quality brand. Angular face, silvery hair, slight stoop, refined in a low key sort of way. Surrounding him, though, an atmosphere of trepidation and a barrier of silence.

Images flood the mind: an art exhibition with watercolours of flowers by a young lady. The amateur artist herself ? elegant, sporty appearance, has done well in the tennis world. The husband at her side older by some tens of years, grey-haired, clear-cut features. Then a winter scene: black ice, the man losing control of his Mercedes. He escaping injury, the young woman, no seatbelt on, paralysed from the waist down. She doesn’t go out in public any more.

						ravishing flowers
						behind glass
						no trace of scent

						on a park bench
						withered pine needles
						still in pairs

						carrying it with me
						the ambience of the studio 
						linseed and turps

						two years
						of drawing from the nude 
						and still cherry

						in the cool of morning
						thumping the newly stretched canvas 
						tight as a drum

		her uncupped hands
		     falling water
		     Alzheimer’s
								            sleepless
								     chaffering curtain
								  a yelp of yellow moon
		         verbiage
		ivy on a forgotten name
		       Alzheimer’s
									fear
								        warm grass
								a young hare’s pulse 
		    Alzheimer’s
		two silent shores
		   selfsame stars
								  black dog howling
								         in the night
									insight
		           Alzheimer’s
		       folding refolding
		the hem of her checked skirt
								         melancholy
								china in hollowed hands
								       stone cold tea
		             funeral
		      slate blue morning
		crunch of gravel underfoot
								         black bags
								      her lilac blouse
								 the waiting wardrobe
		     winter grave
		     a star falling
		through my fingers

	how do they find 
	their way, these corner drunks
	eyes whirling,
	these hunched-over loners
	before white coffee cups?

		Sanford Goldstein

								after years of sculpting
								fingers twisted into claws
								traces of art lost to life
								like stretch marks left
								after a stillborn child

									Linda Jeannette Ward


	grass proliferates
	in the neighbouring meadow;
	at my age
	why do I take notes
	on my reading?

		Michael Fessler

				      			a gift of peonies –
				     			 arranging them, some flowers
				     			 fall off already.
				      			did your embrace last that long?
				     			 I gather fallen blossoms

									Beatrice van de Vis


	almost
	in the vegetable kingdom
	is she
	and already a chair
	with arms waiting

		Sanford Goldstein


								how to tell you
								of the cruel charade I played
								without meaning to
								I wore a self aligned
								to your ways and withdrew

									Linda Jeannette Ward



		a row
		of rugged pine trees –
		the falling of light
		into 
		shadow

			A A Marcoff


									the patchwork cushion
									I made for her years ago
									has fallen apart –
									what more can I do
									except try to mend it

											Mary Hind


	a woman wearing
	summer clothes
	under winter…
	the lake moon eclipsed
	by the swan’s shadow

		Linda Jeannette Ward


								a face
								from the distant past
								and again
								this sense of how
								things could have been

									Paul Smith

	Down from the mountains at night
	Feet dipped in cold water,
	Now dry and tingling;
	And eyes closed, seeing
	Water running over grass.

		(Loweswater, Cumbria, 28.5.86)

			Tito

									sometimes 
									the wind
									sometimes
									the stillness
									what’s left of the willow

											Andrea Grillo