Haibun

juggling teacups —
cracks in the raku
getting wider

Memory of my moments between 1st and 6th grade is a mare’s nest. Two schools in Wisconsin, one in Maine, and two in Indiana all attempted to program my brain. After flunking the second grade, education perpetually perplexed me, and I found myself inexorably behind my classmates.

Jumping ahead to Halloween season at a Green Township school in Indiana, and our silver-haired teacher drawing math puzzles on the chalkboard — she singled me out to solve a problem. It’s not like I didn’t know how to add and subtract. I couldn’t read the board from the back of the room. She told me to come up and study it. The runes were harder to grasp the closer I got to the board — a newfangled form of division? I only went to that school for two days, so my lack of comprehension proved inconsequential to my ego. Later, I attended another school in Deerfield for one day, another token of the instability in my life.

unbalanced —
the boy on a seesaw
can’t solve the equation

At Pine Tree Memorial School in Freeport, Maine, my spelling was atrocious, math skills mundane. I was an avid reader, though ahead of the class; Treasure Island and Robinson Crusoe consumed with a passion only otherwise reserved for recess.

My first crush, even though “crush” wasn’t a word in my vocabulary at the time, was Susan Grover — a pristine, straight-A student — who sat at the desk in front of me.

“Have you ever played with Silly Putty?”

“No, what is it?”

“It’s like bubble gum on vitamins. Here, try it.” She handed me the ball of goo — her hand brushing mine as the room stood still. “Don’t eat it.”

That afternoon, we took part in a spelling bee. “Doing, d-o-o-i-n-g,” I was out on the first word, but she won the whole contest. I can see her now in her flowery dress, standing at the front of the class as each contestant fell. The next morning, our teacher said she had something to tell us.

“Susan had trouble breathing last night . . .” My brain turned into a foggy scream. The rest I picked up from other sources after the fact.

As her condition worsened, her parents put her in the car and headed for the hospital. There was a hospital a few minutes from their home. Instead of going there, they drove half-an-hour to the Seventh Day Adventist hospital in Brunswick. They made a conscious decision to go to that hospital based on religion. It’s a top-notch facility, but it served no purpose that night other than to put a tag on Susan’s toe.

On the way to the hospital, Susan’s parents encountered a group of teenagers playing games in a car just in front of them. Swerving across the road, they didn’t let her father pass even though he was honking the horn and flashing the headlights. By the time the family arrived at the hospital, Susan had suffocated. Her funeral was the first I ever attended, my first brush with death, an empty desk in the classroom.

driving a desolate road
tuning the radio
to dead air

Ronny Glover was my closest friend at Pine Tree. We played tetherball together every recess. We rode the same bus and often helped each other with our assignments. The ride home that afternoon was routine.

When we arrived in Brunswick, the driver made his usual stop on Pleasant Street. I was sitting in the front-right seat. Ronny was the first kid to step off the bus. As he passed, we jokingly said our see-you-tomorrows.

Pleasant Street is four lanes wide. The bus stopped in the left-center lane, lights flashing to stop traffic. Ronny disappeared out the door, and then, wham — his body flew 20 or 30 feet, landing in the road in front of the bus. A sports car came to an askew stop in the middle of the intersection.

A disheveled man staggered from the car, over to the sidewalk, and up to the nearest house. We later learned he was drunk. A woman walked into the street and tried to help Ronnie. She wound up laying her sweater over his upturned face. The police arrested the driver, and the paramedics bundled Ronnie’s body onto a stretcher before loading it into the back of the ambulance. The bus stop is across the street from the cemetery where they buried Ronny. His death shook me like a bucket of nails. And there was no one to talk to but God.

King was just another loud thump outside the bus. The driver stopped and told me to get out and take care of my dog. He left me there with a bloody pile of meat on the road. I ran. I ran up to the house, crying. Grandpa cleaned up the mess on the pavement, but no one cleaned up the mess in my head.

a grain of sand
in the corner of my eye
bloody tears

First published in Lit Up on Medium

You are not perfect, surprise, surprise. But, when I was a child, you were boundless, mostly because my imagination knew no bounds. Boundaries come with age. You were field after field and an occasional strand of barbed wire to climb over but, truly, my range was primarily limited by how far I was from dinner.

In Selma, Montgomery, Nashville, Birmingham, Jackson, Tuscaloosa, Hattiesburg, Memphis, across the South, and beyond, the battle for equality raged just out of sight on Grandma’s TV, conveniently covered with a blanket. I knew nothing of the Civil Rights movement growing up, though it touched me on several occasions.

confused sea—
the island’s lighthouse
obscured by fog

On one such occasion, I was riding through downtown Brunswick, Maine, the place where Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote much of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Grandpa had the radio on when the announcement came over the airwaves, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. has been assassinated. I didn’t know that name, what it stood for, or even what assassination meant. Grandpa muttered, Damn, and then went silent.

drinking
from a polluted stream . . .
dying fox

Later in life, one of my best friends in the army, James, a six-foot black man, built like a boxer, but as gentle as a kitten, surprised me one day when I found myself in a predicament. I was surrounded by four GIs who were pushing me back and forth among them until I stepped on someone’s foot. That earned me a blow to the face. Just then, James came around the corner, saw what was happening, and turned into a roaring lion. Leave him the fuck alone you pansies! If you want to fight, let’s go! The group made a hasty retreat.

I don’t like referring to my friends as black, Mexican, Jewish, gay, or any other label. To me they are, and have always been, just friends. I didn’t grow up labeling people and I’ve resisted the tendency ever since. But I celebrate the diversity of my friends; their integrity, experience, wisdom, interests, skills, creativity, and companionship.

bird sanctuary . . .
a symphony of color
in flight

For me, America is a melting pot. As I ponder the promise of this “land of the free,” I wonder if there will ever be freedom from divisiveness and maliciousness. “We the People” are the ingredients of a grand experiment. The past is set in stone; now is in our hands; the future is the shape of our imagination. I chose to dream of a better tomorrow, born of a steadfast conviction that today is my day to change the world; to change it with a smile, with my protestations in the face of bigotry, with my support for justice and equality.

Here and now, I take up this pen and set my sights on my better self, seeking a community of fearless voices committed to the best this country can be. This land is not your land; this land is not my land; this land is our land! We are the potential energy for a nation built on harmony. It will take many small steps, and we may not reach the destination in our lifetime. What is important is that we stay the course so we can hand the baton to the next generation to carry forward, ever closer to Dr. King’s dream.

the crier
breaks this morning’s silence—
neighbors rising

Darkness. The brush of rough canvas against my cheeks. Hemp tightening around my neck. Do I have any last words?

Ladies and Gentlemen, leering close. Thank you for your attendance on this auspicious occasion. So many friends could not be here today. I am the only one left; you see. Lend your ear; let your minds absorb this song of the dying. 

The scaffolding creaks as the hangman’s weight shifts from foot to foot.

I have lied to myself, cheated myself, stolen time from myself. As I came to believe the lies, I spread the word to others. When it came time to give, I was a well-practiced hoarder. With no time for myself, there was nothing left for you—until now. 

Today, we have this moment. Here in the warm afternoon sun, you have all the honesty I never had to give, the generosity I kept to myself, these precious breaths I choose to breathe with you now.

Creak.

Gentle folks, the sun will surely set on my dreams today, so let me share a recent one with you now. 

In this dream, I am lying on a bed of fresh moss—the canopy above rustling and chirping as a doe and fawn approach. The doe stands above me, her eyes soft as mother’s hands tucking me in at night. She begins to hum a lullaby. They kneel beside me and say a prayer; she tells me that one day I will remember her, and when that day comes, I will forgive myself and say a prayer for the one standing beside me—

tonight the town
lit with pale moonlight
amen

First published in Contemporary Haibun Online

She was the wizard’s candle, bright as a brand new dawn. Floating through the doorway, a breath of summer breeze—hers was the realm of magic woven into the tapestry of my life.

He was the woodsman’s ax, sharp as clever could be. Sitting ‘round the table—stories spun into fantastic laughs—his was the gift of guidance, a gentle hand on my shoulder.

Together they were a pair of birds nestled beneath my eaves. When their time came to abandon the nest, they left some feathers for me to collect—keys to the heavens where they spent their days, reminders we each have our time and place. Now, free from the bonds of this earthly gaze, they fly like angels through the skies of my mind.

weathervane
pointed at the sunset
a boy’s bright eyes

Dedicated by way of a thank-you to Elaine and Neal Whitman.

I love jelly and jam—grape, strawberry, raspberry, blackberry, blueberry, gooseberry, cherry, apple, orange, peach, mango, and mint. Most of the preserves I eat these days come in plastic containers stacked in wire baskets on restaurant tables. It’s been a long time since I tasted a scoop of delicious straight from one of Grandma’s Mason jars filled with fruit.

love
suspended in pectin
my spoon

I suppose I could go to the grocery and buy a jar of Smucker’s or Welch’s, but what would be the fun in that? No, my spoon needs a special jar. Not a drawer or a silverware tray. No. A jar. A real, down to earth, good old-fashioned jelly jar. Something to make it feel at home—remind it of all the smiles it’s fed, spreading gooey delights on toasted bread.

recipe for life—
between flan and fritters
friends

It comes in the mail, an odd sort of package—lump-in-the-middle sort of odd. Upon opening, I find the best brand of found you can ever find—a thank-you. In this day and age, a genuine thank-you is hard to find. Out comes a poem, a fitting response to a book of poems. What better kind of letter than a bunch of letters arranged delicately on the page? But what’s this lump? I’m stumped ’til I pull out . . . a spoon? Best read the poem before venturing a guess, “12 Spoons” by Elaine Whitman.

It started in a local gift shop.

Hmm.

One spoon. Inscribed in its bowl: today is the day.

I pick up my spoon and take a closer look. Inscribed in its bowl: today is the day.

Walking home, we sang from Mary Poppins, ” . . . a spoonful of sugar . . . ” We put our new spoon in a jelly jar . . . And we considered spoons.

hot summer day . . .
a cool dip
in vanilla ice cream

nasty winter cold . . .
sitting at the table
slurping chicken soup

stirring honey
into chamomile tea . . .
a warm hand

There is no hour of the day when something might not be sweetened or nourished with a spoon.

By this point in the story, my heart is a mug of hot chocolate as my spoon swirls in a splash of cream. I sup it up as my mind tries to get a grip on this cup of thoughtfulness.

Studying the single spoon in its jelly jar . . . What if we collected twelve spoons? The jar of spoons would be a reminder of what is sweet or nourishing in life.

I have got to find a jelly jar! Preferably, one I’ve emptied from top to bottom, perhaps onto peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Grandma is no longer with us, so I concoct a second-best plan; I need something natural, homemade, something you can’t find just anywhere. There’s an Amish store in Wisconsin. I’ll go there on my next trip. It’s a treasure trove of fresh-from-the-kitchen, and there’s sure to be some of whatever’s in season nestled up on the shelves. They don’t take plastic—all the better—one step closer to the vine. The best recipes take time.

“love thy neighbor,”
stir in the seasoning
then feast

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

that old song
stuck in a groove . . .
flashbacks

You occupy half the space; your smile dominates the composition. I look happy—must have been—I was holding hands with you. Here we are in posterity between my finger and thumb. How have I become so numb to file you in the circular file, to banish you from this time and space, to leave behind what could not be, to set aside what you meant to me?

Turn the page. Another display of happy faces, you half dressed, my hair a mess—nothing like obliviousness to paint a carefree picture. Two criminals of love, abusers of each other’s lust, nightmares passing in the hall, emotions bouncing off the walls. “They’re the perfect couple,” others said.

If they’d only read between the lines, watched the tears drip from our eyes, peeled the masks from our pasted smiles, traveled a while in our pain and fears, got a good look at what’s etched inside.

dream castle
my bones too frail
to scale the stone

My Queen—your face framed with gold . . . heart so heavy, I could not hold it—we clicked for a while, got sick for a while, shutters closed on the grand hotel; we fell into a spell of disrepair.

So, here we sit in the kitchen, scattered as we always were. Bits and fragments of laughs echo off the ceiling. I’m in this for the healing, so don’t mind the mess. I’m clearing off this table—letting go of the emptiness.

a blink—
your face
slips out of focus

I treasure each moment we spent together, every flower that made you smile.

memories of you . . .
water dripping
through my fingers

I’m wandering the upstairs hallway of this old hotel, wondering what stories lie buried in its now abandoned rooms. It was once a thriving establishment, catering to travelers on paddlewheel boats wending their way up and down the mighty Mississippi River. It’s my dwelling now, just me and my cat, Snowball. Each room is fully furnished, mostly with Victorian-era chairs, beds, bedside tables and light fixtures (bulbs long since burned out). The doors creak. Cobwebs are everywhere. I turn on my flashlight and brush my way into the first room. It feels like Friday the 13th but it’s really just All Hallows’ Eve.

sounds of laughter
fading . . .
dust in the moonlight

The four-poster bed is all made up, waiting for the next guest to arrive. An unopened Bible sits on the nightstand. I imagine a pious man kneeling to say his evening prayers. The space smells old. The memories feel even older.

Snowball startles me as he jumps onto the bed, stirring up a thick cloud of dust. Wheezing, I back myself out of the room, leaving him to explore on his own. The next room is much the same, abandoned in a state of readiness.

shadows falling . . .
I follow a breeze
through the grass

In the third room, I find an old Victrola standing in the corner. Lying next to it is a stack of 78 rpm records. I flip through a few of them. I’ve never heard of the artists—Cleo Brown, Memphis Minnie, Eva Parker Pace—but still, I can feel their music seeping through the pores of the pealing papered walls.

The last room on the right is locked so I turn back down the hall. As I look for Snowball in the first room, I see something under the edge of the bed. I take a closer look. It’s a box of rat poison. I leave it there and close the door behind me.

Finally, the trick-or-treaters have come and gone. I search the place for Snowball and sure enough, I’ve found him, lying limp in a pool of vomit, here on the bathroom floor.

curiosity . . .
the ghosts in the attic
are playing for keeps

First published in Scryptic, November 2018