Haibun

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

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“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

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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

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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

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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

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“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

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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

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no guide…
I head for the nearest
mirage

My balance is getting worse. It’s one a.m. and I’m in a Walgreens’ parking lot cleaning out my car. Lost my father and girlfriend in one fell swoop two days ago. Have been wandering around in a daze ever since, behaving irrationally.

Bought this cell phone for no reason. I’m stopped by the side of the highway to figure it out. A patrol car pulls up behind me. My balance issues weigh against me in the field sobriety test. They take me into custody, handcuff me to a bench, administer a blood test (test comes back negative for alcohol and drugs), and release me.

I descend into fog. They’re detaining me again. This time, to the emergency room for evaluation and a blood transfusion before releasing me once more.

My credit cards aren’t working since I’ve traveled halfway across the country without telling my bank. Somehow, I buy gas at the pump, but when I go inside to buy a Coke and some Fritos, the transaction fails. This causes all kinds of confusion. I’m ejected from the convenience store, and now I think I’ve discovered a new blood-pressure test.

ripples on the stream . . .
each breath another moment
flowing by

Now the police have confronted me again.

“I’m just getting rid of some trash, officer. I’m on my way to Maryland.”

Another failed field sobriety test. I’m taken to the hospital. They put me on a stretcher and leave me in a hallway. It’s a noisy environment, lots of activity. I start screaming. That lands me in a psych hospital. I decide to run for president.

First published in Contemporary Haibun Online

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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