Haibun

Christmas Mass

I'm twelve years old and am getting ready for the 6:00 a.m. Christmas Mass.  It's still dark and the bedroom is cold.  I'm in the church choir and must be there for this early Mass and again at 11:00 a.m.  My father is already up.

"No breakfast for me," I say.  "I'm taking communion."

He has his coffee and a chunk of bread and says he's coming with me.

"Why?" I ask.

"It's dark outside.  It's not safe.”

My father never went to church.  Although raised as a Catholic, he often questioned the church's authority and the demands placed upon the parishioners. Will he come inside, I wonder.  I try to picture him kneeling, bowing his head, praying, sitting through the sermon.

I'd rather be alone, I think to myself.  I'm not a baby.  But I say nothing.

After a twenty-minute walk through empty streets we reach St. Anthony's.  Brightly lighted, decorated with pines and poinsettias, the pews are only half full. My father sees me up to the choir loft, then gives me money to buy a roll at the Jewish bakery on the way home.

"You're not staying?" I ask.

"No.  It won't be dark after Mass.  You'll be O.K. coming home."

Relieved, yet disappointed, I join the other choir members.

voices sing out

through stained glass windows

the rising sun

Simply Haiku

 

                                                               FAMILY TRIPS   

 

Summer vacation, as a young child in New Haven, means days spent on the schoolyard, a local playground or on neighborhood streets.  When my father isn’t too tired, outings by trolley to the beach on Sunday or to the amusement park at Savin Rock in West Haven.  A supper of fried clams, soft shell crab or pizza ends the day.

 

Overnight trips away from New Haven are rare and short.  The occasional one night stay-over in New York City to see the Rockets at Radio City Music Hall or a relative’s wedding in the Bronx.

 

The longest trip we take is a week-long vacation with my mother’s older sister and her husband.  My uncle drives the six of us to the Desert of Maine.  We share a two room cabin, my parents, my sister and I in one room, my aunt and uncle in another. 

 

I am seven and my sister nine, and neither of us is diplomatic regarding the arrangements made by my aunt and uncle. The cabin is too small.  Why is there a sink in one bedroom, a cooking stove and ice-box in the other? Why are the toilet and shower outside? The sand is too hot.  I want to go home.

 

We whine and my aunt nags.  She nags her husband, my mother, my sister and me.  For some reason she leaves my father alone.

 

shifting dunes

the lone man takes

a new direction

 

 

Presence, Winter 2011

Haiga

 Black & White Haiga

Tanka

fading autumn

a dullness in the downed leaves

in these rain filled days

deprived of sunrise, sunset

I paint with only red

Red Lights

 

Haiga

Daily Haiga 

Haiku for Halloween

 voices in the night

forgotten stories

forgotten lives

Haiku Sequence

THE SEYCHELLES

 

                                                            trade winds

                                                            through the local bazaar

                                                            looking for a fan

 

                                                            an egret bobs

                                                            across the open lounge

                                                            rustling palm fronds

 

                                                            power outage

                                                            stilling our chatter

                                                            the luminous reef

                                                            

                                                            clear blue water—

                                                            refracted sunlight scatters           

                                                            with each step

Stylus Poetry Journal

Haiga

 Failed Haiku

Haiku

early autumn

tasseled grasses

dust the air

Heron's Nest

Haiku

a shift in the wind

we follow our noses

to the apple orchard

picking and tasting

we use both hands

to fill a basket

Senryu

Happy Hour

a time for venting

the day's misery

 Failed Haiku

shuffling

ankle deep in red leaves

the spongy undergrowth

the damp woods

gathering as much of autumn

as I can hold

Dragonfly

White Lotus

 

Haiga

 Haiga: Black & White

Haiga

Haigaonline

 

Haiku

 

                                                                                    

the rain over

on an impulse I buy

a straw hat

World Haiku Review

Haiku

 

a butterfly

deep within the Russian sage—

the scented heat

Presence

Tanka

the prick of thorns

leaves a trickle of blood,

the same red

from any color rose,

from any bruised heart

Red Lights

Haiga

 Chrysanthemum

Haibun

SUNDAY      

 

A trip to the ocean. A secluded cove with a slatted pergola, wooden tables and benches, an outhouse. A stone wall separates this area from the beach. Uneven steps lead down to a narrow strip of sand, accessible only at low tide. No hawking vendors, no swings or amusements for children, no crowds. Gulls, sand, sea, rocks. Dad’s favorite beach.

 

shirtless again

splashing vinegar

on his sunburned back

Presence

Haiga

 Haigaonline

Haiku

 change in the wind

the farmer down the road

manures his fields

Cattails

Haibun

LOST and FOUND 

 

The pain of loss never goes away permanently. Sometimes remembering brings sadness, sometimes joy, sometimes pain. The realization that so many once in my life are gone pounds like a full-blown migraine. Again, I go through an array of emotions, wishing I had said this or that, done this or that. Husband, father, mother, brother-in-law, people I have known well and those who were only acquaintances. It hurts to remember, but it would hurt more if I forgot, if I tried and couldn't picture my husband as he sat reading, my mother smiling as she stitched a dress for me, my father whistling as he made the Christmas dinner, Archie as he smoked his cigar and sipped a scotch, Herman as he sat at a picnic table laughing with my son. The pleasure and the pain.  

 

daffodils

remembering again

when to bloom

Frogpond

Haiga Stories

Haigaonline
 

          CAPE COD

  

Early evening, the back yard of a summer cottage.  I am alone, except for the hidden life under the porch, in trees and bushes and in a shallow ravine of wild grapevines,

 

Cloudy and cool, the air heavy with damp. Chipmunks dart from under the porch into the bushes and back. A small rabbit, like part of a magician's trick, suddenly appears on the grass munching clover. Just a handful of softness. 

 

On a low pine branch, a plump robin.  His orange breast brightly visible in the graying dusk. Sleek and lordly, he turns his head, gives a few whistles, flies down to peck in the grass, then back to the branch.  Again and again, the same procedure.  This is my territory his call seems to say.  My branch. 

 

Crows, starlings, a pair of blue jays and a pair of cardinals.  In and out of trees, in and out of the ravine. A sparrow inspects the brick patio, then hops away.  More robins. Too many and too fast to identify which call comes from which bird, except for the lordly robin back on the pine branch.

 

Damper now, and colder. Mosquitoes find my bare legs. Still, I remain. There are fireflies, signaling from the ravine, the wind speaking to me through the trees, the thin, gray light not yet gone in the west . 

 

                                                            a country night–

                                                            slowly the quiet

                                                            wraps me inside

 

Nisqually Delta Review

Haiku: Trees in Bloom

white dogwood

giving the abandoned church

a new roof

a  scruffy lawn

jacaranda blossoms

fill the bare spots

heavy rain

collecting cherry blossoms

with each step

World Haiku Review

World Haiku Review

Hokku

Haiga

Haigaonline
 

Haibun

                                                                 Breaking Away…or Not      

 

I cannot ride a bike.  A bad fall as a child pushed my wish to learn off the horizon.  Once every decade or so a hazy desire returns, spurred on by family, only to vanish after another fall or near fall.  I envision a fractured hip, broken collar bone, concussion, full body cast.  Now in my  seventh decade spring has again stirred an unnatural wish to defy gravity and climb in the saddle.

 

But wait… Are those rain clouds moving across the horizon?  Storm clouds bringing thunder and lightning? 

 

Ride a bike?  No thank you.  I’d rather walk.

 

                                                                  yellow flowers

                                                                  drawing me down

                                                                  for a closer look

Moonset  

Tanka

                                                     scraggly pines

                                                     uneven branches

                                                     against pink clouds

                                                          with advancing time

                                                          my changing perceptions

Ribbons

Haibun

The Condos at the end of the Cul-de-Sac    

 

“See you at the mail box,” I say to my friends when we speak on the phone. Neighbors we are, one on my left, one on my right, three widows, with me in the middle sharing a condo wall with each.  The Merry Widows. Or we were.

 

a little tipsy

senior decorum slips

with a bawdy tale

 

Lunches, dinners, shopping. Impromptu gatherings for coffee with freshly baked cookies. All that was before. Before our advanced years and vulnerability made us cautious, made us retreat and pull back, keeping our contacts to the essentials. We keep in touch by phone and emails, gripe, worry, encourage. On occasion we meet outside at the mailboxes, short meetings, voices raised  so as to hear words spoken at a distance and through a mask. 

 

“What’s new? Saw the doctor. Ordered online. Catch you tomorrow.”

 

 It’s not enough, but we endure and hope. I collect my mail and retreat, but with a lighter step.

 

slow cooker

for one or a dozen

it’s about the wait

FAILED HAIKU

 

  

Daffodils

 

                                                                        

                                                 rush hour traffic

                                                 slowing down

                                                 for daffodils

                                     the morning sun

                                                warming my back and spirits

                                                waves from walking friends

                                                at a six-foot distance,

                                                from daffodils up close

Presence

Ribbons

Haiku sequence

and the rains came

spring rain

the pond rises

to meet the willows

the blurred shades

of a watercolor garden

rain-streaked window

showers 

splashing down the grassy bank

purple crocus

opening windows

the first rays of sunshine

after a hard rain

more rain

April ends

with a new pond

Heritage Hills News

Haibun

THE OPEN DOOR  

koto music

to relax, ease my spirit

to give me wings

homing me to a place

of tranquil memories

 

My date promises a special dinner, an adventure in eating.  He heads west towards Hollywood, towards the Sunset strip. I think Musso and Frank’s Grill, Chasen’s, Scandia. He is mum.  

 

He turns right and winds his way up, ending at a rough parking lot below a large, one-storied wooden structure in the style of a Japanese house with low hanging eaves. The grounds are overgrown and appear to have been neglected for years. My date tells me this once was a hotel with bungalows hidden in the shrubbery and trees, a trysting place for those seeking anonymity. 

 

We walk up a gravel path after examining the alternative, a rickety wooden staircase. At the top, we cross a moon bridge over a koi pond which extends under the building into an inner courtyard and are met by a woman wearing a deep blue kimono splashed with cherry blossoms and white cranes. She asks if we want “inside dining in Japanese manner with view of koi pond or outside in Western manner with view of city.” Only then do I notice what’s behind me.

 

purple and gold sky

marking the onset

of a twinkling dusk

as the city prepares

for darkness

 

My date has reserved seating inside, and we are led along a wooden veranda, passing rooms, some open, some closed with a heavy paper screen, to our private room. Our hostess slides the screen open. 

 

“Please to remove shoes,” she says. We do as she does and enter an exquisitely, flawless, sparsely decorated room with a low table in the center, square pillows for sitting, tatami mats on the floor, and a slightly raised alcove against the far wall with a blue and white vase holding a single bird of paradise. To the right of the alcove is another sliding screen from which our servers enter and exit. They come bearing hot cloths for cleansing our hands, cups, bowls, chop sticks, and a hibachi. While our chef prepares the meal, we sip hot sake and listen to the strings of a koto that someone is playing by the koi pond. My eyes flit from watching the chef to my date. 

 

how does love begin?

a word, a look given

a meal shared?

the way to a heart

has many paths

Adelaide Literary Magazine 

 Sept. 2020

Tanka

 

the morning sun

warming my back and spirits

waves from walking friends

at a six-foot distance,

from daffodils, up close

Ribbons

Haiku

                                                the slow slide

                                                of water on a leaf—

                                                the blink of an eye

Shamrock

Haiga

 Black and White Haiga

Haiku

 snow in the night

I check his breathing

one more time

Presence

Red Moon Anthology

Haibun

                                                                  BLACKIE  

One day Grandpa brings home a small black dog. We go for the obvious and name him Blackie. The little dog wanders between my grandparents flat on the first floor, our flat on the second floor and the yard. Sometimes he escapes the yard, but always comes back. 

 

One morning, Grandpa tosses Blackie into the cellar and locks the door. Soon, men arrive wearing heavy clothing and thick gloves. They go down the cellar carrying a metal cage and come up with Blackie in it. He growls, snarls, bares his teeth. He drools, a foamy bubbly drool.  Claws at the cage. Barks violently. The cage is put in a van with a double lock. Blackie’s barking and snarling continue as the van drives away.

 

                                                             full moon

                                                             above my head

                                                             grasping shadows

 World Haiku Review Autumn 2020