Haibun

Odyssey         

 

An elusive floating.  I reach out and clasp sunbeams. I move forward,  searching for I know not what, yet, understanding that when I find it, I shall know.    

 

I search with eyes for that which is grand and imposing, for that which is small and ignored.

 

I search with nostrils and tongue, sensing pleasure or dissatisfaction. I search with touch, exposing my body to heat and cold, to numerous textured surfaces.

 

I search with ears for murmurs and whispers, for harmonies and discords, for natural and unnatural vibrations thrust into the air. I search for quiet, in mind and body, for that is when I become a vessel filled with words.

 

suddenly awake—

the thin sheen of dawn

pulling up the day

 DRIFTING SANDS

 

 

Haiga

 HaikuKatha

Sequence

 A Lake in Autumn

long shadows

beneath the lake's surface

slow-moving bass

the still, black water

without a ripple

leaves settle

a misted sun

reflected in the lake

deep the cold

Styles

Haiga

 Frameless Sky

Tanka

a brisk autumn walk

the muddy blend of colors

deepens my mood

where are the highlights

and bright spots of  yesterday?

 Ribbons:Tanka Cafe

Tanka Prose

Nights in White Satin* 

 

It’s not just the music, the minor key plaintive sound or the voice, the anguished cry of loneliness and longing, or the words, a soulful declaration of love. It’s all of one piece, one compelling surge of raw, emotion. It lingers in memory, replaying at odd moments, unsettling, piercing one’s equilibrium and soul, shattering one’s peace so hard come by.

 

I play the song

knowing it disturbs and hurts

knowing and needing

      there is a solace in pain

      there is hope for acceptance        

 

* by the Moody Blues

Haibun Today

 

 

Haiku

 garden show

beginning outside the gate

with dandelions

Kingfisher

Tanka

 fragments of autumn

crimson, ochre and sienna

falling in silence

an early mist and fog

across this mountain valley

Lanadfall Anthology

Haibun

An Introduction

 

There are only four black children in my eighth-grade class, three girls and a boy. Colored was the word used then. I was sort of friends with Ruby. We hung out at recess and walked part of the way home together. One day Ruby asks me to her home.  My grandmother will be annoyed when I come home late, but I say yes, I'll come. 

 

I expect a single-family house or a two family one, like the one I live in. The building, one in a street of such buildings, has four levels. The paint is peeling and the railing is broken. 

 

A few people and kids are in the street, and they are colored. I'm in a colored neighbored, a new experience for me. There is bare dirt in front of the buildings, unlike my grandfather's neat plantings of roses and hydrangeas. I follow Ruby on worn and uneven steps up to the third floor through dun-colored halls, smelling of food and noisy with crying babies and shouting voices. I'm beginning to regret I came.

 

Upon entering the flat I see an old woman, Ruby's grandmother, scrubbing the raw wood floor on her hands and knees. Unsure of what to do, I look around: a wooden table with a linoleum top, scrubbed wooden counters neatly arranged, white curtains floating on the breeze coming through an open window. There is the fragrance of baking, and I see a plate of buns on the table.  Ruby's grandmother stands up, smiles and motions me to sit down.

 

one cactus blossom

a bee finds the sweet spot

in the center

 

"Now ain't this nice. Ya brought a playmate home wit ya, Ruby. Sit. Sit and have some biscuits."

 

This is another new experience. Not the crusty rolls or chunks of Italian bread I know, but something soft, and light.

 

"Ah'll get some butter and honey and milk. Ah allus have somethin fresh baked fo my little girl atter school. What's ya name, child?"

 

I tell her and say thank you for the biscuits, eating three, keeping up with Ruby. We don' talk, just eat, quietly sitting in that kitchen smelling of soap and baking. There are more biscuits in the oven which the grandmother watches as we eat. When we finish, not sure if I should stay or go, my timidity gets the better of me. I murmur another thank you and leave.

 

I do not go there again, or do I invite Ruby to my home, but we still hang out at recess and walk part of the way home together. After graduation that June, we never see each other again.

 

graduation day

by mid-afternoon

excitement fades                                                      

 Haibun Today

Haiga

 Haigaonline                                                             

Tanka Prose

ALL GOD’S CREATURES 

  

After an absence of several weeks, he’s back. My squirrel. Upside-down, right-side up, every which way possible, he is having his breakfast at the bird feeder. Why he went away and why he returned is a mystery. Maybe this is a different squirrel, but he is just as determined to roust the birds and have his fill. He ignores my tapping on the window. I tap a little louder. He looks up, gives me the eye, and goes back to eating, flipping out more seeds than he eats. 

 

He is a rodent, and that alone makes him an unwelcome visitor. Maybe, I shouldn’t fuss over his presence.  Doesn’t he have to eat, like the birds? If I’m willing to give birds a free meal, why not a squirrel? He is messy, but he does make me smile at his antics. He is a first-class circus act.

 

It is early spring, and he is most likely short on food sources having used up his winter cache of nuts. I let him finish his feed, which he does after about fifteen minutes. I’ll go outside and refill the feeder, knowing he’ll be back later in the day and again tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. .  .

 

though hidden from view

there is a destiny

given at birth

from flea to elephant

we share a raison d'être

------------------------------

Contemporary Haibun Online  

Tanka

 red barn and house

hay bales in the field

a ready stage;

I try to say with words

what others say with paint

 

MODERN ENGLISH TANKA

Haig

Haiga: Black & White

Tanka

 retirement

so many plans to make

I make only one,

to work very hard

at doing nothing

TSA

Tanka

 the sky above

between eastern mountains

and the western ocean

from brush fires and sunset

the same red

Red Ligthts

Haibun

Legacies   

 

Italian immigrants come with little in their pockets, yet riches in their hands. Stone masons who give life to rocks and brick. They build low walls to mark property lines, six-foot walls to surround an estate, columns to support an iron gate and walls to decorate their own modest homes. They build a bank, a school, a church. They build a village.

chiseled stones

an old man’s hands

folded in death

Contemporary Haibun Online

Tanka

 a carousel ride

moving forward, yet. . .

turning back

to when my father

lifted me up and down

Red Lights

Haiku

 cold summer rain

echoing through the damp rooms

the click of my heels

thunderous rain

glimpsing the road

between wiper beats

Acorn

Presence

Haiku

 thunder and lightening

another cup of coffee

at the diner

Haibun

Dear Mary,    

 

Do you like this new stationery? I think it’s cheerful, and we all need cheerful, no matter the news in the papers and on the television.  

 

bitter cold

pink roses trailing 

the edges of vellum

 

I do like nice writing paper. I wonder how much of it is sold. So many people send emails or texts, which are all right if you need a quick response. But, then, there’s always the telephone for that. 

 

supper time—

from an open window

she calls for her son

 

I’m sitting at my desk, the sun behind me, warming my back as I write. Today, I’m baking bread. Remember how Mom’s bread always got us racing into the kitchen for slices slathered with butter? 

 

the neighbor’s lilacs 

free for the taking

a wafting fragrance

 

My African violets have buds on them. I didn’t kill them, after all. Just gave them transplant shock. I don’t know why I take on new responsibilities, but I must keep them alive. Maybe, it’s the need to be needed. 

 

great-grandpa

passes on his stories

to the young ones

 

I’m thinking ahead to summer. How would you like a visitor for a couple of weeks? We’ll pretend to be newly arrived and visit all the touristy places and then cool off at that secluded beach up the coast. 

 

the setting sun

below the horizon

the cool splash of waves

 

I must get on with my day, the usual routine of washing, ironing, dusting, . . .It may just be warming up a bit outside. I hear a small gurgle in the gutters.

 

spring shopping

to dress up the garden

new seed packets

 

Much love, as always

Adelaide

 

 

 haikukatha July 2024 

 

Haiga

 Haiga: Black & White

Tanka sequence

The Planet’s Hourglass   

changes, they say

are for easier lives

and we accept,

we rejoice, we implore

give us more, give it now

 

we close eyes and ears

ignoring the naysayers

and the unborn

whose cries we still with laughter

and distain 

 

if we stay on course

there will come a day

that has no light

a rain that has no end

a cold that stops the heart

 

if there be but one

who has faith and the will

to be a voice of truth,

to act the truth he speaks

he will be heard

 

if his deeds be large

or if his deeds be small

he will be followed;

hope is in the addition

of even one grain of sand

 

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Drifting Sands

 

Haiga

Haigaonline

 

Haibun

FINDERS KEEPERS 

 

 

Early dusk in mid-autumn. The air is scented with damp earth and fermenting leaves. I’m on a walk in my neighborhood. As there are no sidewalks, I walk in the road, staying close to the brush, the weeds and dirt and. . . apples. Apples?  I look up. An apple tree. Here. In a suburb of New York City. The ground is covered with them. They are pitted and bruised and have  soft spots, but I gather up as many as my pockets and hands can hold, feeling like I did when as a child I found a penny on the sidewalk.

 

wind-fall apples

cutting out the bad parts

to make applesauce;

if time spent were money

I couldn’t afford a jar

Contemporary Haibun Online

 

 

Haiku

 the longest day

gaps in the woods

now closed

Gean

Haibun

Concierto de Ajuanuaz   

an ekphrastic haibun  

 

A boy begins to lose his sight at three years of age, eventually becoming totally blind.  He studies musical braille, learns the piano, the violin, the guitar.  He composes for each, becomes known and helps to elevate the guitar to an essential orchestral instrument. 

 

perfumed paseos

sweeping crescendos

from his guitar

 

trickling fountains

a cool spray to taste

what cannot be seen

 

the Garden Aranjuaz

rising melodies

in the fragrances

 

Juaquin Rodrigo 

Born:  November 22, Sagunto, Valencia, Spain

Died:  July 6, 1999, Madrid, Spain

Cattails

 

Haiku Sequence

     SIESTA IN SEVI LLE

                                                                  the Giralda tower,

                                                            shimmering in the heat—

                                                            the empty streets

 

                                                            chinks of light

                                                            slipping through the slatted blinds—

                                                            click of the fan

 

                                                            sweat beads up—

                                                            thinking of Santa Cruz

                                                            and strolling guitars

 

                                                            sliding an ice cube

                                                            around my neck and shoulders

                                                            waiting for dusk

                                                          

Stylus Poetry Journal

 

                                                             

Tanka

I try with words
or with paint and brush
to capture my world
 inadequate the results
no matter the feelings

The Art of Tanka

Tanka

the family table

all the stains and scratches

under a fancy cloth;

how can I remove memories

left by this who have gone?

Ash Moon Anthology

Haiga

 Haiaga: Black & White

Tanka

 small worries

the stuff of everyday

set aside

leaf buds forming

on every tree and bush

Modern English Tanka

Haiga

Failed Haiku

Tanka Prose

 BREAKFAST AT THE DINER

 

When the craving hits, there is no ignoring it. Be it a sweltering day in July or a sleety one in February, we are off to the diner for waffles. Toasted frozen waffles are a poor substitute. Half the pleasure in diner waffles is the diner. Mid-morning is the best time.  The early risers, the got-to get-to- work on timers, the quick coffee and donut-to-go goers have come and gone. We are the lingerers, the no planners, the no rush retirees. 

 

The diner, the third since the first one appeared on the site in 1929, is a long, low building and chrome shiny with dark red booths and counter stools.  Juke-boxes, although no longer working, display the songs of fifty years ago.  

 

We get a booth, and coffee is poured even before we settle in.  The order:  Belgium waffles, darkly toasted with bananas and walnuts, a side of bacon, extra crisp, and keep the coffee coming. 

 

daily pleasures

need not the deep pockets

of the rich

just an appetite to enjoy

all that’s on life’s menu   

 DRIFTING SANDS

Haiga

 HaikuKatha

Haiku

 early March

forcing spring

with forsythia

Acorn

Haiku

                                           

 Sunday drive

bumper tp bumper

through autumn

Bottle Rockets

Haiga

HaikuKatha

 crumbling farmhouse

the wind whistles a tune 

eons old

Wales Haiku