Haibun - The Sickroom Window
The Sickroom Window
Another night of rain passes into a day
of stiffened joints. I force myself to get
up to open the window.
As I do, the world, having been held back
by the closed glass, pours in. I let myself
lie down again.
Tightness loosens into drowsiness as a
trace of sweetness carried on a breeze
reaches me.
gnarled peach tree --
frothy blossoms
cling to the clouds
Haibun - Rahat Loukoum
Rahat Loukoum
By the bank of the boat pond, Khadija and I lie down.
The morning star has turned evening and the sun eases
over the wisteria pergola.
Khadija sits up and rustles through her grandmother's
wicker basket. On a gold-rimmed plate, cubed jellied
jewels sparkle in a dust of finely crushed sugar.
I hold the tiny two-pronged wooden fork and pierce
the confection. As I touch my tongue to it, a burst of
simple sweetness is so pure, it draws me in.
Then, as I ease my teeth through the delicacy , the complex
sweetness of creamy Noor dates unfolds around pale green
pistachio and deepening Damask rose.
Sugar moon --
the prayer rug of grass
hidden by blossoms
Haibun - Returning
Returning
My father was a fisherman. Before dawn,
he surfcast off the coast of Montauk from
a favourite boulder he liked to stand on.
Ten years after his death, I return during
a storm and come upon the boulder awash
in waves. For some reason, I expected it
to have gone with him.
dusk in winter --
a roiling sea
churns the sand
Haibun - Sweet Grass
Sweet Grass
She shows me how to weave blonde baskets
with a light hand. As we braid the oval reeds
with sweetgrass, their delicate but rich green
runs through the wicker like rivulets after rain.
darkness woven
into the tangled leaves --
summer evening
Haibun - North Shore
North Shore
Our summer house was built in the 1920s
and had a shower outside. During the day,
the sun warmed the pipes. On hot nights,
my sister and I took turns reaching up to
tug the chain as the spray turned cool, then
cold. I can recall her so clearly - shivering,
almost blue in the shadows.
washing our hair --
streams of moonlight
down her back
Haibun - The Bouquet of Illness
The Bouquet of Illness
The white tulips you gave me in the crystal vase
have died... bowing this way and that, not a petal
has dropped. Rather, they are curled into themselves -
having taken on the tint and texture of papyrus. If I
could paint, I would need sepia-toned ink. As it is, my
only choice is weighing the tragedy of keeping them or
the tragedy of throwing them away.
black sky--
a sliver of moonlight
doesn't cast shadows
Haibun - Lily Pool Terrace
Lily Pool Terrace
Somehow, the air always seems gentle by this silent pool.
Perhaps it is the stillness of the almost one hundred water-
lilies, their reflections marbled by the sky.
At the end of the pool, roots deep in the earthy stagnant
mud, the sacred lotus stands high, silken petals vermilion
as if she had caught fire from the sun.
But it is Winter now; I crouch here, by the edge of fallen
flowers. That flowing youth of a lotus in bloom has left,
leaving her to a lonely, aging season.
a sheen of ice
on the lotus pond
the leaves shrivel and sag
Haibun - Tracelessness
Tracelessness
Night and pain both have a love for the dark. Once
again, I find myself swallowing another pill. I have
lost count of the pale orbs but the pain knows, knows
precisely. And, as a dreaminess flows in me, the pain ebbs.
"I should have been an archaeologist of myself" I say, giggling.
My bones, bleached by the sun, will be awash, ashore. Hopefully,
they will be scattered. No Voodoo nerves to pinprick this flesh and
blood poppet or muscles to tie sailor's knots and angler's loops.
"Some day" I say, giddily."They will wonder about my life over my
death - yes, even though, oddly enough, the first made me yearn
for the second." But, a snowflake has drifted onto my hand, melting
with a sweetness that brings tears because already I am forgetting...
my pale face
in the dark window pane --
a cameo
Haibun - La Chasse Aux Papillons
La Chasse Aux Papillons
In my dream, I stroll beneath the lindens...the summer
sun warms the orange and lemon blossoms, coaxing the
release of their gentle fragrance to the stronger tuberose
and jasmine blooming farther away. I awaken to the feel
of a butterfly wing brushing against my cheek.
unveiled --
clouds part to reveal
the winter moon
Haibun - Andalusian Gaspacho
Andalusian Gazpacho
The tomatoes - seemingly ripened and reddened
by the summer day - are cored and quartered. The
holiest of trinities - fresh garlic ground by my mortar
and pestle into paste, moistened stale breadcrusts and
sherry vinegar from Sevilla have been stirred into a
glass bowl - their flavours have seeped into brilliant
colour. As night spreads her tablecloth of stars, I smooth
the soup, anointing it with olive oil from Cordoba.
almost autumn --
a Flamenco tune
on a lone guitar
Haibun - Fracas
Fracas
First, faint neroli and peach among the greens...
then, the chaos of a million blooms unfolding...
white flowers, luminous as stars, tumble over
and over in dark woods of cedar and sandal...
settling at last, onto oakmoss in constellations.
winter wind --
a tuberose pegasus
trembles
Haibun - A Passing Storm
A Passing Storm
Before rain, leaves turn upside down and
silvery as if presaging lightning. i pause in
stillness...silence...the wait for thunder.
windshift --
tarnished clouds gather as one
and break
Then, as quickly... trees drip greenness until
slow enough to become droplets... in a golden
calm - another quiet...one without waiting.
after the storm --
an origami crane
floats on a stream
