My Published Haibun - this form of Japanese poetry features a short, titled prose narrative and a related haiku.
Sacred Ground
a seagull’s cry
grey flat-bottomed clouds collect
over the point
Lush grasses, thigh-high, enfold bare limbs as we four journey—safari-like—into an unexpected jungle surrounding the massive oak overlooking a sun-drenched harbor.
“I don’t like the wet grass touching my legs,” my teenaged grandniece cries out, near tears, a combination of lack of sleep and getting closer to her beloved Babi, whose ashes were dispersed between the tree roots just last November. Too close. Too soon.
“We’re almost there. I’m sure of it!” I exclaim.
Armed with three bubble guns, I forge ahead. Deer under a nearby catalpa flick their tails as we creep closer. Scouring the vegetation at the oak’s base, we find the various stones that comprised my sister’s cairn. Wind and rain have taken their toll. We restack each rock, in no certain order, without having the tower topple over.
We honor her playful spirit by shooting bubbles. Eva’s tearfulness turns into a frenzied dash chasing her younger sister with a spray of small prisms, the shimmering colors spilling forth from her purple plastic gun.
the lifespan
of a magnolia blossom—
where river meets ocean
[Carries in the October 2024 edition of The Haibun Journal.]
A New Palette
Long recognized in Boston as a Copley artist, Betty is also well-known throughout the South Shore for her colorful oils, which often capture top prizes at juried exhibitions. She loves painting en plein air, deftly capturing the splendor of florals, seascapes, and landscapes. On my weekend visits, she pulls out her latest work for a critique. This time, however, she has no canvas to share. Her blue-grey eyes lock onto mine. After a moment, she manages, “I forget how to paint.”
a junco
perches on the birdbath
first hard frost
[Carries in the July 2024 edition of Poetry Pea.]
Blue Christmas
blowing bubbles …
her spirit soars
skyward
Dainty bluebird-colored bulbs decorate the little blue spruce at the chapel’s front. The introductory chords of “Silent Night” waft towards me. Only a few gather on this dark, rainy eve. In alternate rows of polished wooden pews, we sit holding lit candles. Face masks cannot hide pain. Some weep openly. On white paper cutouts, we scribble names of loved ones and hang the stars, one-by-one, on the Tree of Prayer. Scriptural readings, interlaced with silent pauses, allow time for reflection and contemplation. This diminutive chapel is a safe haven. My heartbeat pulses softly—a reminder that I am still here, alive in the moment.
the burning bowl—
releasing our burdens
to the blaze
[Published December 24, 2022, in the Word on The Street, a publication of Whistle Free Press.]
Beyond the Screen
Standing in the library with a digital SLR camera in hand, I spy a small porcelain figurine nestled amidst spring green fronds in a potted urn. “Ah, it is the Kannon, in a contemplative posture.” I gasp, edging in for a closer look. “Guanyin,” I whisper with delight, “the Bodhisattva of Mercy and Compassion.” I offer a slight bow. My fingers toyed with the Nikon’s f-stop feature, hoping to capture the perfect image. The time is centuries ago in the Song Dynasty, one of China’s most prosperous and vibrant time periods.
Having reached Nirvana, Guanyin has returned to be among mortals to assist them in achieving enlightenment. I feel blessed in my life.
the Nine Dragons scroll
offers a glimpse of forgiveness …
mid-summer fire
Author’s note: Kannon is known as the goddess of mercy. In China, she is known as Guanyin and revered as the most widely beloved Buddhist Divinity.
[Published online in Under the Bashō.com]
Silver Linings
storm surge
a winter of broken things
offers new life
Wise ones say the teacher finds us when we are ready. After losing Sis, my life went dark. Melancholia woke up with me most mornings. The 24th of every month brought a trembling. All those occasions where I should have seen her face or heard her voice, she was not to be found.
hindsight
navigating white waters
brings clarity
Weaving the torn edges of my life together, I found a strengthening occur at the thin places. This was such a gift. Sacrifices can become times of growing, more than giving up. Grieving expands one’s empathic sensitivities. When things fall apart, trust the path will open to a new world. Look for fresh meaning. Practice being content in the moment. Let color and vitality fill your well, refresh your spirit, enliven your being. Everything that comes our way and everything we co-create, when fully embraced, helps us grow.
[Featured in Failed Haiku, Autumn 2022]
Always Becoming
true essence
tender heart, generous spirit …
the soul is love
The human condition is love. I glimpsed this reality during the last ten weeks of my sister’s earthly life. As Sis withdrew from material things and threw off layers of life accumulated, there blossomed a spirit of grace, gentleness, and generosity. She became love, wholly and completely, and then … let go the final sigh. Sometimes, one is lucky enough to witness such holiness. It is a gift, a veracity revealed, that is unmistakable and life changing.
in the lifespan
of a magnolia blossom—
journey to heaven
[featured in Failed Haiku, Issue #80, August 2022. Available online at haikuhut.com.]
Flourishing
The lavender prayer card cupped in my palms is penned in a calligraphic hand. Several short verses spark my soul. Before stepping into the labyrinth, I pause to speak the phrases aloud. Walking mindfully at first, I sync my steps with breath. Soon, the rhythm becomes natural. The beachscape is still this early eve, under the near-full Hunter’s Moon. The river is silent. The birds are in their nests.
the edge of winter—
leaves turning and
wisps of woodsmoke
Three bone-colored tarps, stitched together at the wider ends, are pieced together to form a map for the weary soul. Broad-brush indigo flourishes soon give way to deep purple and then lavender as the swirls edge inward to the center. Electric pillar candles are placed at regular intervals. The flames guide my path as darkness drops its cloak.
With each step, the heavy canvas sinks into the sand. I honor the earth, kissing it with each intentional step. My breathing has slowed. Compassion builds within. It is a time of surrendering. A time of leaving the past and future. A time of focusing solely on the Now.
autumn moon rising
the gift of presence
lights up the soul
[featured in the print publication Presence, Britain's leading haiku journal]