Haibun - The Farmhouse, 1825

Farmhouse, 1825


The original gate has been blocked by
hedges. Outside, moss covers the stone
path. Light breezes carry wild mint through
the bent cedar. Geranium petals splash their
warm hues around a bird bath and through
the green grass.

Inside, the red glass globe of a train station
lamp, long retired, hangs from the ceiling.
By the cold stone hearth, a broom with a short
handle waits for a tiny witch. The smoke-grey
cat, quieter now since losing his mate, sits in
deepening shadow.

Awhile back, two sisters dropped by. They had
been born here and wanted one last visit to
their childhood home.


farmhouse --
feeling the centuries
in the wood

Haibun - Lucky Number

Lucky Number

Years ago I lived in a townhouse in Brooklyn.
Our address was 11 and a half Prospect Place.
Usually a fraction means that the building has
been wedged in almost as an afterthought so
that the numbers should have run 11, 11 and
a half, and 12. But on Propect Place, on either
side of us was 11 and 15 with 10 and 12 and
14 across the street. The original owners in
dread of the number 13, had legally changed
the address to 11 and a half. But it didn't keep
a troubled painter from hanging himself and
two girls from drowning in a bathtub before.

urban seance --
a chalk ouija board
drawn on asphalt

Haibun - Found Missing

Found Missing

Sitting here, in the middle of a poem,
I try to recall a word and fail. I know
that no other word will do and yet I
can't remember it. I have lost a word.

hidden
by seaweed and sand --
a silver lure

This is a lapse of memory. Lapse -
the word sounds rested, relaxed.
A leisurely swim back and forth
through cool blue pools. A release
of held breath into a slow sweet
breeze. Taking off. Letting go.
Without any questions, having to
answer only to now.

twilight --
the smooth purple
of a clam shell

What, then, is a relapse? Have you
come out of it, only to discover your
legs turned to jellyfish and so, at the
first wave, surrendered, leaving
only a mirage of a glimmer on the
shoreline's frail froth? Or is it a
darkening, deepening of the lapse -
a submission, a submersion, sinking
beneath the waves, dreams, words
themselves - to the stillness and
silence of the ocean floor?

neap tide --
the scent of honeysuckle
drifts across the moon