Dedication: Forever Gramma
First published in the Contemporary Haibun Online Haiga gallery.
Full Circle
Sam adjusts his tie and steps off the porch, the light blue feather tucked in his hatband—a gift from a friend. The sidewalk is alive with shoes today. His cane taps along as he sets off to work.
Miranda meets him at the corner, clutching her pink handbag. He greets her with a smile. They chit-chat over old times as they walk together to his office. They discuss plans for dinner and agree to meet after work. He goes inside.
She continues two more blocks to the school crossing, where the guard waves her across with a batch of children. She smiles at the man and offers a thank you.
The man holds up his sign until all are safely across. Stepping to the curb, he explains to one girl how he had to cross the street all by himself when he was young. The story makes her happy that he is there.
The girl heads into school and her classroom. The teacher calls her name and she responds with a cheerful chirp, “I’m here.” The teacher smiles and puts a gold star in the roster next to her name.
After school lets out, the teacher is busy grading the day’s assignments when the principal stops by. “I had a wonderful day with the class,” she tells him.
He smiles, leaves her to her papers and heads out to the parking lot where he encounters a boy on a bike. The boy is ecstatic about his booming home run at baseball practice this afternoon. The principal gives him a high-five and the boy whizzes off.
Waiting at the light, the boy watches a couple cross the street, he with a cane, she with a pink purse tucked under her arm. The man tips his hat and the boy smiles back, catching a glimpse of what was once his feather.
quiet moon . . .
thank you for taking the time
to shine
First published in Haibun Today, 13:4
Reicarnation
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
Serena strolls down the sidewalk, thumbing through her treasured collection of Emily Dickinson poems, not unlike a typical teenager scrolling through their Facebook feed. She studies the rhyme, cadence, and metaphors woven into the lines—reaching inside for the essence entwined in the fluid strokes of Emily’s pen. She skips over cracks in the pavement, conscious of each click of her steps. To her, the air is fresh and crisp. To her, the sky is a never-before-seen shade of blue. The music of songbirds from a nearby oak merges with the taste of the syllables on her lips. The words hold her hands, guide her through the city to the river’s edge . . . each moment a new possibility to ponder . . . each breath another lifetime to live.
bird’s-eye view
the glow of a rising moon
branch to branch
Note: Emily Dickinson’s line above is from her poem, ‘“Hope” is the thing with feathers.’
First published in The Haibun Journal
Bedside Manner
frosty hospital window—
from this bed
my reflection for a view
After spending a sleepless night listening to my ticker for the slightest irregularity—even the ones in my imagination—I finally doze off just before dawn. The cardiologist wakes me an hour later, accompanied by my favorite nurse, Carol, and tells me my heart is in good shape. It just pops out of me like air out of a balloon: “That must mean I have a good heart.”
His glare could freeze anti-freeze. “Carol has your discharge papers,” he grunts before swaggering out of the room.
code blue—
x-ray his funny bone
for signs of life—stat
First published in cattails
Clouds of Faces Drifting . . . By
For anyone
Who’s ever loved me
Each who stopped to care
For the prayers
And helping hands
The smiles and the laughter.
What means so much to me is that you thought of me.
That is why I love you—you think of others.
You have been yourself with me.
spring rain
in fertile soil
a seed
Flicker
We danced through spring, held hands all summer, embarked on strolls through groves of falling leaves.
Beside the fire, this winter’s eve, crackles in our ears simmer with the echoes of fearless whispers. Hearts as warm as the old stone hearth, we’ve sparks in our eyes this breathless night. A gentle snow is falling outside, settling deep in drifts of timeless moments.
brewing hot cocoa . . .
the way you fan the embers
to reignite the flame
Somersault
“All you have to do is stare into the sun until you start seeing angels. Gravity will do the rest.”
flexing his muscles
the brainiac
stubs his toe
Wrinkles in the Equation
Age is a relative thing, not an aunt or uncle thing, no, more like an Einstein thing, like a black hole waiting to swallow you up and never gonna spit you out kind of thing. Just what you would expect from a Ferris wheel that won’t stop spinning—the gravity of the situation, not to be underestimated. What started as a quarter’s worth of spun sugar now clings to my face in nebulous patches of gray whiskers. Couple that with the fact that my attraction to carnival rides grows weaker by the day, and there you have it; the Universe keeps expanding, and I can’t seem to find the time or the energy to ponder it.
sliding beads
on his abacus—
Newton
discovers a wormhole
in his apple
First published in cattails
Litmus Test
She wastes no time.
> Tell me something about yourself.
> Uh, I have a green nose . . .
> There’s a truck in my bed . . .
> Just shaved my toes . . .
> Gonna buy a used rowboat . . .
> Drive it across the salty sea . . .
> And fish.
> Are you healthy, organized? What is your diet like?
> I can account for all my elbows . . .
> Cat’s wearing my socks . . .
> I’m all pens and knitting needles . . .
> Hard-boiled eggs for breakfast . . .
> Scrambled breakfast for brains . . .
> Supper of scrambled brains.
> How do you feel about technology?
> Cell phone’s almost dead . . .
> I’m texting it to death . . .
> Maybe I’m boring it to death . . . row, row
> I’m a bored-to-death phone-killing omelet . . .
> Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily . . .
> Life’s a railroad train.
> Do you have any past relationships I should know about?
> Once upon a time . . .
> In a far off land called Evanston . . .
> I was a young man . . .
> Met a girl named Pam . . .
> Gave her a string of beads . . .
> And off she ran to the Philippines.
> She just left?
> Eeny meeny miny moe . . .
> All the things . . .
> she forgot to bring . . .
> Like me . . . my shoes and socks . . .
> My shirt, my pants . . .
> And baseball cap.
> What did you do?
> Swam all night . . .
> Naked as a fish . . .
> From head to toe . . .
> Realized . . .
> After flopping ashore . . .
> I swimmied to the wrong island.
> I don’t know; it’s a crazy story.
> Acorn squash for a heart . . .
> Butter in my veins . . .
> Mash me up; I’ll fill your plate . . .
> Look, it’s not that bad . . .
> It all makes perfect sense, you see . . .
> My upside-down, inside-out turned world.
my id
left to its own devices
speed dials
the International
Date Line
First published in cattails
Lanolin
Once again, 3:00 AM. This computer’s clock has ticked away another two hours of irreplaceable sleep time. My bladder woke me and my treacherous brain denied me a return to slumber. After checking my empty inbox a dozen times and browsing through an idle Facebook feed until ennui set in, I find myself herding words.
morning routine
I sweep cobwebs
from the ceiling
The doctor tells me sleep is essential for my mental and physical health. Convey that message to my neurons, please. A thousand sheep and still counting. I have enough wool for a wardrobe of sweaters and mittens. So I write about sweaters and mittens.
I have this nagging thought of my cat and my ex who has the cat. I hope they’re happy together but I’d sacrifice a lamb to be reunited with them now. He’s a long-haired kitty and she has curls. My hair is falling out so I shave my head regularly. Oh, what I’d give to run my fingers through hair again. 4:47 AM.
5:32 AM. The A key keeps sticking…aaaaaaaa. Must be trying to tell me something, some great revelation yet to emerge on the page. Perhaps there’s even a shilling in it for me. Then I can buy a decent pillow.
6: 15 AM. Now, it’s come to me. I’m thinking of starting a rebellion. The world is due for a great upheaval. Not one where governments fall or industry is brought to its knees. Sheep keep me awake. I’m thinking we should deport them all to the steppes of Spain or the pastures in the south of France. Let the shepherds count them. They have dogs to help keep track. Yes, a revolution is in order. This is a cause that will put you to sleep. All that baaing has cats and girlfriends swirling through my brain.
If your head is a stockyard like mine, join me in this revolt to silence the lambs. Take a break from your insomnia. Become asleep. Don’t give in to the faces from the past. Armies march on their stomachs. We can march on mutton.
dawn…
I readjust
my dreamcatcher
