Haibun

Sweet Rachelle, your first eager glance has lasted all these years. I sit with it now and wonder, what has become of you? I feel your inspiration well inside of me, your enthusiasm for life and loving and the arts. I need to remember you, not the way fate pulled us apart but the way we came together in the searing days of August 1985.

time traveler . . .
my quiet steps
in the museum

We met informally at the art club gathering, you, sitting in the corner with your flaming hair, smiling at me across the room. Your eyes lit up when I said, “I’m a sculptor.”

You chirped, “Me too!”

That was all it took. We became the best of friends, every day spent together making art. It was only a matter of time before we were making love.

After school let out, I tried to visit you in Montreal but the border patrol wouldn’t let me through. I can’t find you on the Internet so I’m left with an au revoir and a smile but I hope you still remember the day we met, our last hug, and the laughter.

dream weaver . . .
the warp and weft
of a tattered shawl

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Wrapped around your finger, like a towel around an agitator. Lost my glasses in the dishwasher looking for you. The blow-dryer went out with a bang and now my hair has powder burns.  The dining room light is out and I can’t see what I am eating. Tastes like sawdust anyway.

belching and smoking
with a purpose…
chimney sweep

The traffic light said GO; smash! The insurance company raised my rates to see if I bleed. All this from a fortune-teller who asked me how I was going to get home. Found my toupee in the lint trap. You never liked it anyway. If only I could borrow enough money to live like a lottery winner, there would be more cheese in the fridge. Our dirty laundry is on the clothesline.  When will the cows come home? All I know is if you add detergent, and put quarters in the slot, I’ll spin like a top with bubbles until the laundry mat is closed.

Kama Sutra Blues…
Maytag hiring
for all positions

First published in The Other Bunny

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downwind from the cattle ranch, cooking hash on a campfire, smells like nuclear fallout, the time for mourning the cows—over and done—we milked the last one before slicing her throat yesterday, moo-town blues, harmonica melted in the blast, no lips anyway, half the world gone, the other half going, better for the cow, no slow, slow death by rad poisoning, snow and rotten apples on the trees, up to my knees in shit

stock market plunge
the rising cost
of a cheese sandwich

First published in The Other Bunny

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Ronnie stepped off the bus and flew thirty feet, right before my eyes. By the time he landed, he was dead. Fifty years later, the events are still in slow motion in my mind—but backward: first a thump, then a laugh passing by, then he’s leaning over the seat, cracking jokes. We run through the door when the last bell rings; at recess we’re playing tetherball. We solve the problems on the board, rub the sleep from our eyes. We greet each other in the hallway, another day with a friend begins. I wonder if I left something important out. Could I have laughed at one more joke, played one more game? How could I know I’d remember that day as the day we ceased being children.

dry east winds . . .
a tumbleweed rolls
toward the setting sun

First published in The Haibun Journal, 3:2—October 2021

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Somewhere inside his meandering mind, he finds a moment where he can set aside the complexities of life. Sitting at his desk, the walls fall away and he becomes that little boy, playing with his toy Mustang on the sidewalk. Zoom, zoom! His inner child spins the model’s wheels, imagining what life will be like when he’s all grown-up . . .

SNAP—he’s back to the present; spinning in his chair like a top, he wonders, As I die, will I feel this sense of completeness?

a sketch of spring leaves . . .
my finger in the frost
on the window

First published in The Haibun Journal, 4:2, September 2022

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Moving is no fun, but after living in a nursing home for over two years I find it to be an adventure. My stuff, those things that have been languishing in storage all this time, is finally in my possession again. I am rediscovering myself one box at a time. Each box is filled with memories that make looking back both painful and liberating. This vial of Herkimer diamonds, for example, a gift from my favorite rock hound, grandpa … old birthday cards from people who no longer remember my birthday … pictures of my last girlfriend … aha, my favorite slippers!

Freedom is exhilarating. Not that being cooped-up kept me from expressing myself or expanding my horizons. Heck, during my stay at the nursing home I wrote over 500 poems, made friends outside the home and explored the microcosm of a world around me with staunch enthusiasm. Still, I thank God I’m on my own again.

summer symphony …
oh how the meadow
explodes with song

Reborn, my world is full of new and second chances. Now, each memory, each opportunity, each dream is a reason to grow. Every time I look in the mirror, I see a new man, a new creation.

lightning strikes
as the earth keeps spinning
he climbs the mountain

First published in Haibun Today

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so long quiet night . . .
the cacophony
of a world awake
is bewitched
by itself

This tale begins at dawn. Eyelids flutter open. Daylight spills in. Covers unfurl. Feet touch the floor. A quick stop at the loo, then off to brew some coffee. Turn on the morning news. Got to catch up with the spinning earth.

Brush teeth, comb hair, and throw on some rags—it’s a rush to beat the morning rush—don’t want to be late. There’s nothing worse than being late.

Don’t forget the keys. It’s a short walk to the train but there’s a long cue at the turnstile. Got to catch that train—don’t want to be late.

Clickety-clack hums the wheels on the rails—cars filled with people with somewhere to go—for a moment, somewhere together. Then we spill onto the street like scattered leaves, minds with different thoughts to fulfill. This swirling soup of energy, one can almost see it breathing. The beating heart of this chaotic dance, one can almost feel it bleeding.

The city wakes from an evening’s dreaming. I merge with it and become obscure. Walking through the throng, I wonder, “Is this what I’m seeking?”

another today
passes by . . .
a soft wind blows
through the fog
in my mind

First Published in Haibun Today

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Outside the cabin, a smaller, child-size log cabin once sat next to the driveway. Over the years, a coven of spiders and wood ticks took it over, the forest slowly staking a claim, gravity wresting it back into the ground. We never played there. Who wants cobwebs in their hair, much less nightmares on the brain? There were bear claw-marks in the wood, for crying out loud. No telling how many creatures chewed on that shack, and the fallen pine needles on the roof left a musty Hansel and Gretel feel. Little children could get lost in there.

Finally, someone dismantled it, the children grew up, and the ghost stories surrounding it gradually subsided into memories of fear we’ve almost now forgotten.

one stone gathers moss—
what looks like rain
is just a cloudy day

First published in Haibun Today

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The eight-year-old boy can’t reach the first branch of the largest of a pair of maples in the front yard so he settles for the lowest branch of the smaller tree. He easily pulls himself up into the first crotch and pauses there, planning his route to the top of his favorite aviary. He knows each branch like the back of his hand, every step, every handhold. He starts to climb, one limb at a time.

As the boy ascends, the branches get smaller and more flexible. He can feel himself now swaying gently in the wind. He can almost (but not quite) poke his head out of the leaves at the top of the tree before he’s forced to stop climbing. Here he tucks a leg into the fork between two branches and settles in. First, he senses the breeze gently evaporating the sweat from his climb. Then he feels the sun poking through the few leaves hovering above his wandering eyes. Eventually, the sound of those rustling leaves bleeds into his awareness. All would be silent if it weren’t for the rhythm of the leaves and the chirping of an unseen bird. The boy is where he needs to be. A robin lights on the branch beside him. He wishes he could fly.

dancing
with a cricket…
moonrise 

First published in Haibun Today 12:2

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I’m alone in the desert—sand in my mouth. The skies have scorched me. The wind has blown me from mirage to mirage. But I’ll reach for your hand till I find a way out. You don’t have to be perfect, just right for me. I walk across a dune, another and another. I’m a shadow in a dream, what’s left of me. When I come to your oasis and the moon finally rises, I’ll drink from your well, begin to believe it was all worth the pain.

temperature rising . . .
what I would give
to ride a cloud

First published in Haibun Today

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