Haibun

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

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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Rita says she’d like some soup. It’s Christmas Eve, so my reaction is to ask her, “What kind of soup would you like?”

“Oh, let me see, something vegetably, maybe a bit potato-ee. You know, peas and carrots and lots of broth, a dash of salt, onions, and celery; a chunk of chicken, perhaps—something like that. Mmm, hearty stuff that sticks to my bones, warms my toes and fills my nose with memories of mother and father and sister and brother all gathered around the table many years ago. Just one big, happy family—filled with wonder, thankful for each other, hands clasped in prayer—the one now living in this photo album I’ve been thumbing through all night.“

“Can I see?” I lean in and begin to absorb the flavor of her memories as her fingers weave back and forth through the pages of faded imagery.

silent night . . .
the warmth of her feet
by the embers

I turn my attention to her kitchen and quickly realize I am in a bind. There’s practically nothing in the fridge—the shelves are nearly bare. The stores are closed, and the gift I brought her, a woolen sweater, is clearly not edible. Well, in the fridge, in an otherwise empty drawer, I find half of a raw potato. That’s a start, I mutter to myself. Carefully, I slice and dice it—skin and all—then back to the icebox to see what’s left to see. 

Aha, a box of chicken broth tucked in the back, but wait, the expiration date, December 25th, 2022; whew, a bell’s jingle to spare. Back to the fridge, check the drawer again. Wait, what’s this? A stalk of celery. Hmm. Chop, chop, chop—into the pot. That must be just about it. But perhaps it’s worth another look. Let’s see . . . nothing in the freezer, but when I turn, there on a hook, a bunch of carrots like ornaments on a tree. Ho, ho, ho, into the stock, chunks of root go plop, plop, plop. 

One more look in the bottom drawer, simply because I cannot seem to trust my tricky eyes. To my surprise, an onion appears. With tears, I peel and marry it with the soul of the stew.

Did I leave the freezer door ajar or did it just swing open ‘cuz the unit’s out of level? Hmm. A good thing either way, ‘cuz I wouldn’t have seen the chicken I missed on my first expedition through its wintry depths. The bird will have to thaw in the pot. I ease it in. The broth’s getting hot.

Pinch the last pinch of salt from the shaker; bring the aromatic dish to a simmer.

I sit at the kitchen table watching snowflakes twirl in the light softened by the frosty window. When the vegetables and meat are tender, I pull out a serving tray, arrange a bowl, spoon, and napkin, ladle a savory helping of soup, and decorate it with sprigs of celery leaves. 

Carefully, I back my way through the swinging door from the kitchen space into the dining place. 

As I turn to call out Rita’s name, I am met with a bewildering scene. On the table, fully set for a feast, sits the largest turkey I’ve ever witnessed. Surrounding a slew of holiday dishes and an unused trivet near the turkey’s tail, two kids sit with a pair of grownups—hand-in-hand—reciting the Lord’s Prayer. There is one unoccupied chair. They all look up together, and together they smile at me.

stockings filled with candy . . .
the sound of many hooves
prancing in the snow