Haibun

I study the anvil cloud through the swish of my wipers. Dark sheets of rain veer from cloud to ground as lightning zigzags through the electrically-charged air. Off to the east, I see blue. It’s been like this since I left this morning. Thunderclouds, clear sky, rain, sun… Traveling alone on I-55 from St. Louis to Madison in the late summer of 2012, I make my way through the remnants of Hurricane Isaac.

As I approach the cloud, I turn up my wipers and prepare for another downpour, hoping I’m not driving into the beauty of a rain-wrapped tornado.

I chant my war song . . .
a hare
in the falcon’s eye

I’m a seashell, washed up on a distant shore.
I’m a pony standing beside the road.
I’m lighting striking a church-bell tower.
I’m a ladder leaning up against the wall.
I’m the last tree standing in a burning forest.
I’m a feather falling from the dusky sky.
I’m an empty bowl in a beggar’s hands.
I’m chicken soup in the middle of the street.
I’m the smaller half of a wishbone.
I’m a drop of rain on a sunny day.
I’m the moon behind an angry cloud.
I’m the 13th hole in a dozen donuts.
I’m a postage stamp on an unsent letter.
I’m an odd sock in the bottom drawer.
I’m wallpaper peeling off the walls.
I’m a hamper full of dirty clothes.
I’m a bag of tricks.
I’m full of shit.
But most of all, I’m horny.

laughing stock
in the slaughterhouse . . .
bull market

I see a light through the keyhole while fumbling with the keys to my imagination. The faint sliver penetrates the darkness just enough that I can tell it’s there. I try the first key. It doesn’t fit. I try the next and the next. Each is another mismatch. Finally, the last one slips into place. The lock clicks as the key twists. I turn the knob. The door swings wide and daylight spills in.

spring morning…
I follow a bee
to the honey

no moon . . .
I take a breath
of silence

I’m in the mountains of West Virginia dead-set to cross them before daybreak. Problem is, I need a ride and they appear to be in short supply. Finally, a pair of headlights, navigating slowly through the falling snow. I stick out my freezing thumb but to no avail. The car eases by.

30 minutes later . . . my ride arrives, two men in a beat-up station wagon. I climb into the backseat without hesitation. We make the usual hitchhiking small talk. I tell them I’m headed to Fort Campbell, Kentucky, returning from Christmas leave. They seem to like my military status.

“You’re lucky we came along,” the driver quips. “We help the police patrol these roads for hitchhikers. It’s dangerous out here.”

chilly wind
that knowing grin
in the rearview mirror

I study the rough face of the burly driver for a moment as I envision my body being dumped alongside the road. The skinny fellow in the passenger’s seat, chuckles. He passes something to the driver then turns around to look at me.

“You want some moonshine?” he asks. “It’ll warm you up. There’s a jar under the seat.”

Oh boy, I’m in a car with a couple of drunks who think they work for the police. I fumble under the seat and pull out the jar. The first sip burns my throat. The car continues on into the coal black night.

“Our turnoff’s just ahead,” one says. “but we’ll take you to the next town where it’ll be easier to get a ride.”

I thank them, welcoming the thought of civilization. Our conversation ambles as the liquor begins to warm my body. We talk about the military, patriotism and our love of freedom. We have a lot in common it seems.

Arriving in town, it appears deserted. The two men talk between themselves. Finally, the driver declares that they will take me a little further, to a better spot. Not wanting to step back out into the cold just now, I agree.

Each stop breeds a similar conversation and result, just a little bit further. All through the night, we travel.

Three-quarters of the way through the jar, I finally spot the welcoming glow of Charleston in the twilight.

going home
only my shadow
knows where I’ve been

First published in Narrow Road (2019, April Issue)

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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