A peaceful country road winds its way through the quiet fields and pastures just south of the Mason-Dixon Line here in Maryland. This lazy pathway is not encumbered with bumper-to-bumper traffic, the honking of horns or the sounds of marching armies. In fact, the only real commotion here is caused by a few red-winged blackbirds flitting about, squabbling over whatever piece of real estate it is that they’re hell-bent on plundering next. The occasional tractor chugs by and, every so often, a car. The Doppler Effect seems very noticeable here or so I’ve noticed. I was aimlessly driving my own car down this road when I just had to stop, get out, and listen to the view.

dragonflies stirring . . .
imprints of wind
on a cloud

The scent of hay, corn, fresh-tilled earth, and cow manure mingle together and saturate the warm summer air. It’s a country thing. As you might guess, there’s a lot that goes into concocting the average bucolic day, but I’m just a tourist passing by. What do I know?

A grasshopper hops out of the tall grass beside the road and lands at my feet. I’m careful not to step on it as I get back into the car and start the engine. The noise shocks the air and the grasshopper wings away. I pull back onto the road, lost in the sound of the waves I’m making, semi-oblivious to my own existence, and overcome with a sudden urge to turn on the radio and listen to some country music.

First published in Contemporary Haibun Online, Spring 2018

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The bugle sounds and I rise from bed, thoughts of an early-morning swim drifting through my mind. We gather in the field and the camp-master utters his daily questions. Who wants to stay and do exercises? Who wants to go to the lake? There’s a chill in the air and some can’t fathom getting wet, while others eagerly raise their hands.

The whistle blows and the brave scurry to their cabins to fetch a towel before running down the hill. It’s a badge of honor to be the first one to jump in. Some stand on the docks and dip a toe. The knowing ones cannonball in with a great big splash. I make my way to the diving board, knowing full-well that it’s all relative, the coolness of the air versus the temperature of the water. I bounce, then fly, a perfect arch in my back, arms spread wide like a swan. I pierce the glassy surface. Warmth envelopes me. The morning chill all but forgotten, last night’s dream comes back to me.

Later that evening around the fire, sparks flow up to a starry sky. We sing the camp songs and say our prayers, then head to bed to dream another dream, something for tomorrow’s plunge into the ripples on the lake.

a honeybee sips
from a rose in the trellis
busy at being
what it’s meant
to be

First published in Contemporary Haibun Online, 16.2

Dad died two years ago today. How’s that for a Memorial Day memory? The park is filled with families and friends gathered together around barbecue grills, coolers, bouquets of large colorful beach umbrellas and a wide variety of pop-up tents and awnings. Like a field of tombstones, the lawn is littered with monuments raised to the fleeting ambitions of the living. I’m walking through a graveyard of the living.

The aroma of charred meat and the laughter of children permeate the muggy air. Adults are doing adult things. We used to do that…gather around the coals, drink beer, tell stupid stories, and…oh…and eat too much. All that’s left—memories of picnics punctuated with the reality only a grave marker can truly provide. As I walk past the graves of the living, I stop to ask myself: where have all the stories gone and where are all these children headed? Perhaps the best option at this point is to just reach down inside and try really hard to summon the courage to cry.

harvest moon…
the old ways keep
getting older

First published in Contemporary Haibun Online

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Mom had a poodle named Martini. She loved that dog but may have loved the liquid indulgence even more. I mean, she always pampered that mutt, but she could also out-drink a fish. The haircuts, ribbons, bows and extra olives certainly made for a colorful childhood, no matter how you choose to look at it. Anyway, I’m just sitting here right now, idly sipping a memory of the two of them, enjoying a little hair of the dog and ambivalently wondering if pets are allowed on the furniture in heaven.

moonrise at sunset…
shadows of wildflowers
in his hand

First published in Contemporary Haibun Online

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I don’t know much about butterflies. I can recognize a Monarch when I see one, but other than that, they’re just nice to look at. Today a white one, with a wingspan of only about an inch and a half, was flitting around in the garden from hosta to vinca to sunflower to rose but never landing. Maybe it was looking for the best place to rest its wings. To and fro, lifted by the wind occasionally up to twenty feet or more, then zigzagging its way back to the flower bed—it seemed to be searching, but for what? Maybe it just likes to fly, enjoys the garden view. Maybe it’s safer in the air.

I have felt like that insect for most of my life, flitting around, looking for the perfect place to rest. We are different as I wear shoes; it doesn’t have holes in its socks. But we are both travelers, navigating our way through the flowerbed of life. It caught the wind; I chose the road, but now I have a roof, and it has the sky. As I watched, I realized there was nothing between us but the rays of the sun.

dressed for the milonga . . .
across the dance floor, she glides,
pauses, glides again

First published in Contemporary Haibun Online

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The wooden stairs are steep, only about ten of them but steep. At the foot is Grandma’s canning pantry complete with carefully sealed Mason jars filled with applesauce, jams, jellies, watermelon pickles, and other preserves. Mostly it’s fruit we picked. I like it when Grandma chooses me to fetch something from the shelves.

To the left is Grandpa’s workbench with an assortment of tools including a bench-grinder, a couple of rock tumblers and, my favorite, a handheld black light. We use it to view the fluorescent stones and minerals in his rock collection gathered on many trips across North America. Fluorite, calcite, and hyalite all dazzle in its subtle glow. Grandpa weaves stories of adventure in with his descriptions of the rocks.

Behind us is Grandma’s hand-cranked, wringer washing machine; so fancy. I enjoy wringing out the pants and shirts when the wash is finished. Lines hang from the ceiling near the furnace toward the back of the room. She tells me I’m an expert with clothespins. 

These days I find myself spending more time in the basement. It’s quality time for me, springtime in my mind.

old songs
playing on the radio . . .
a pear blossom opens

First published in Contemporary Haibun Online

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“An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.”
                                            ~ Mahatma Gandhi

When I went to school, there was a practice called paddling. The event was announced on the public address system for all to hear and was carried out in the school hallway in front of students who gathered to watch. Three whacks with a substantial paddle, wielded by the principal, was the standard measure – five for egregious offenses. The offender was made to grab their ankles and wait for the blows to fall. The girls would giggle and the boys would taunt “don’t cry.” You would be called a baby if you did.

cackling hens . . .
the crunch of eggshells
underfoot

Today, swatting a child is a criminal offense in many jurisdictions. I say many jurisdictions because, in some countries, public flogging is still a means of enforcement. In most of the world though, we like to think of ourselves as more “civilized” now. Still, we wrangle over the question of whether to “hang” or “house” a convicted serial killer. We’re still at odds over the issue of punishment.

As the old generations die away, our perspective is slowly changing. I’m very grateful to my grandmother though, for her non-violent approach to discipline. Her remedy was to sit us down in a chair to watch the clock tick away an hour of our playtime. Looking back, I cherish the memories of those hours sitting in the kitchen watching Grandma deep-fry doughnuts, but I’m also convinced the principal was a sadist.

blood-stained hands . . .
the rose has bloomed
but the thorns remain

First published in Contemporary Haibun Online

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