Tag Archives: Haibun
Sir/Madam do not interpret with your own mind, the words of Divinity; having to explain what is held In the temple of my Soul.
You only speak as the sinner you are. Now then, let us pray.
Scent aromatic in clouds
Spring rain wakes summer.
I shall not seek Thee —in a stiff collar of white or colorless turbine. Or, robes of wool…covering skin dark or light over bones disguised in cloaks of Yellow, Orange, Brown, and lest not we forget Cremora White!
—You have no need to convince me of the fig leaf on my soul! I have acknowledged its presence. I will find its place in the empty void.
I shall find You —by going forward and leaving me alone.
In valley below
winter thaws upcoming spring
On Holderness Road
I never know where you are —In the Alps, Himalayas’, Europe, or in the mountains of New Hampshire? I miss you, your stories, and the personal footnotes of the un-condensed adventures;how you accepted them, good or bad, and passed through them. So quiet and shy in your beautiful observations —yet bold and independent in your actions.
I hope you are well, happy, and peaceful in India; a beautiful country made more beautiful —welcoming your presence.
Your grace continues
to precede you as lady
pink slippers follow
The clear Vodka bottle stood full, unopened on the top of the refrigerator. It has been there for hours, turning into days, weeks, and months. Every time I opened the refrigerator door— I would looked at it, and sing “Choices.” (Written by Billy Yates and Mike Curtis made popular by George Jones), and I would go about my routine day. But, eventually— one evening I took the bottle down and placed it on the counter. I found a clean mason jar and placed a few cubes of ice into it—poured from the bottle two mason jar fingers—staring out the kitchen window, I saw the full moon looking like a lost silver dollar—I raised my glass.
Let loving hearts ache
Release all blame and accept
The seedlings of trust
In case your curious:
I looked out my window this morning slowly moving towards the door… smiling, I saw the first snowfall lightly covering the back yard and exposing at its edge, new white paths into an open woods.
(It was usual autumn foliage, sensuous in its finale. Out doing summers delightful green crescendo. Very colorful introductory and passing of those two seasons can never negate spring’s promising return with greater lovers that give them birth and death. They still, however, tease her about her promiscuity).
I was delighted to see, winter keeping his engagement.
Kitchen is brewing, filling the room with the aroma of bold roast coffee. I can hear the kicking off of boots… the stocking pitter-patter of feet, of the artist, above me; carrying wood from the woodshed’s wheelbarrow, and scratching and scraping, stoking the cooling wood stove.
Our winter season has begun.
Between sun and snow falling
The line is lovely
Walking Rye Beach mid-morning, I got lucky. Swept against the rocks, by its fierce ocean parents, I kicked up in shallow sand, a whole, still intact, not easy to find on Rye’s rocky coast a half of a clam shell. Yup! I got lucky. Cause’ just up the street to Hampton Beach, they cost a pretty penny. I slipped it into my pocket.
When I got home, I brushed, with my fingers, any sand that would remind it, other than where it came from… other than where it is.
I did the same with the pocket I carried it. Turning it inside out and shaking everything free, every tidal grain of beach sand. Knowing I wouldn’t get it all.
I placed it on a table, on my porch. I heard, without ears, spirits, east, west, south, and north… applauding me for a gift well received.
Anyway, it sits on a small iron table next to my chair. And, once in a while, having my morning cigarette and coffee, or, my evening cigarette and tea, I often wonder where you went? Were you boiled, fried, or, slithered down someone’s or something’s throat? Or maybe, your shell was cast away with a porpoise’s kiss and lives as a child of Poseidon, dancing your life away to the contemporary bands of Atlantis.
I think of you… leaving this shell for me and my cigarette, whether through sacrifice or a beloved life. I still keep this gift, left for me— to find.
Hard life floating smoke
Seashell sits empty in bliss
Brass, brazen maple leaf, embossed with a very serious face. Buds around you change in every season; green in spring, leaf in summer, then celebrate their passing in bright reds, yellow, and orange. Crackling under my feet, whispering to me; seasons pass and I am looking forward to wintry solitude.
You, my friend, stand against my fence. Never blowing away. Brass and brazen, always in the same place.
A gift from a flea market, many years ago. A gift from my children, placing our imagination, with their love, in an honored presentation, on Father’s Day; of my favorite leaf, one from a maple tree, brass, brazen as could be; never blowing away, always in the same place, as their love continues for me.
Splintered kindling wood
Moss growing moist on north side
Summer serves them well
Written In Center Sandwich NH at Kathleen’s place.