Autumn…a haibun

The first leaf fell today,
	lacking even grace of color,
to lie quiescent on the sidewalk
	‘til wind-blown travel claimed it.
Soon millions more will throw themselves
	to willing death,
flaming brightly before reduced to
	crackling beneath feet in futile protest.

Days grow shorter, nights stretch longer,
	nights where passion once flamed brightly,
now passing also into death,
	unwilling on my part,
	kamikaze-like on yours.

The fire that now burns
	devours all the love
	and leaves not even embers
	that soft breath could coax back to life.

Autumn's harbingers
Lie dying before my eyes
Love once green now dead

Winter snuggles deeply down

Walking outside 
   I inhale crystal shards:
   sparkling, beautiful, sharp
   slicing my nose and lungs;
   wind accentuates the cold.
Birds huddle
   in puffy, feather coats
   inside bushes nearly denuded of leaves.
Squirrels draped in fur
   (would PETA member throw paint on them?)
   scamper everywhere
   heedless of the cold
   stashing nuts in places too soon forgotten.

Calendar a lie
Winter snuggles deeply down
Cold seeps into bones

 

Friday Fictioneers: Autumn

I’m pretty sure that according to this week’s prompt, we’re all toasting marshmallows (yes, they’re giant-sized) to make s’mores (dark chocolate on mine, please) for Rochelle’s birthday tomorrow. But just in case I’m wrong (or even if I’m right), I’ve included a story, a haibun this week,  for Friday Fictioneers, a confection created from 100 words and mixed each week with other such confections that can be accessed by clicking on the little blue critter at the bottom of the post.  Beware!  Some of these confections might be tricks, rather than treats.  Some will be sweet, others might be sickening.  But you won’t know which is which until you click and read.

So happy birthday, Rochelle.  Thanks for hostessing this diverse group of confectioners and may your birthday be a sweet one.

copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The first leaf fell today,
	lacking even grace of color,
to lie quiescent on the sidewalk
	‘til wind-blown travel claimed it.
Soon millions more will throw themselves
	to willing death,
flaming brightly before reduced to
	crackling beneath feet in futile protest.

Days grow shorter, nights stretch longer,
	nights where passion once flamed brightly,
now passing also into death,
	unwilling on my part,
	kamikaze-like on yours.

The fire that now burns
	devours all the love
	and leaves not even embers
	that soft breath could coax back to life.

Autumn's harbingers
Lie dying before my eyes
Love once green now dead

Mourning the girls of Nigeria and India…a haibun

We sit in a darkened auditorium, surrounded by people in colorful Indian dress, the music of Indian in our ears, entranced by the daughter of friends performing Arangetram, the beginning dance of a dancer’s life. This girl, whom we’ve known since she was small, a girl who pulled carpet with my husband and her father, is at sixteen, a beautiful young woman. She dances for almost three hours with only a few breaks; enchanting, pouting, exciting, withdrawing, holding poses that would break strong men. In one part, she dances the story of a young maiden being importuned by a god. She says she’s not yet ready, asks him to wait until she is old enough. She looks gorgeous; her dances are marvels of vivid beauty.

She finishes, suddenly a gawky teen once again, giggling, slightly bent rather than erect and poised, chattering through her thank-you’s, moved to tears by her parents’ generosity and love, giving shout-outs to her friends.

Watching her dance, my mind drifts away to the stolen girls of Nigeria, victims of evil men, torn forever from their families. I cry inwardly for the two girls, 12 and 14, gang-raped and lynched as they relieved themselves at night in a country (India) with more access to mobile phone than toilets, and so many, many more such victims. They will never dance; never know that colors and beauty of their countries; never be gawky teens, filled with the joys and terrors of school and life; never see their families again or, just perhaps, become the next Indira Gandhis. Their innocence and lives were taken by the very men who should have cherished and protected them, an ultimate betrayal, deserving of death.

men without honor
ravish those they should protect
peacock’s scream splits night

 

 

Seasons

If the label “haibun” is off-putting, think of it as poetic prose with a haiku at the end.  It doesn’t matter if you know anything about haibun or haiku or poetry.  It matters if the ideas ring true and touch something in your heart.

Seasons

Spring: the tender bud; hidden, delicate flowers; slowly unfurling leaves; animal babies and fluffy baby birds; perfume wafting from blooming bushes; last year’s milkweed rising like the bones of long-ago beached whales on empty shores; chill nights.

Summer: waves of green; hundreds of foot-tall plants making rain forests for small creatures; paths shrinking as fronds reach out; hot midday sun making all life somnolent; jewels of morning dew burning off quickly.

Fall: a fading beauty; dressing carefully in shades of russet; the structure beneath her skin more prominent now; clinging to accents of color; fighting a rearguard battle yet still a head-turner.

Winter: stark beauty all that remains; time for thought, for personal pruning; lingering indoors, wrapped in home, family, and warm blankets; being mesmerized by fires in stoves and fireplaces; walking, clothing-cocooned into a world resting patiently, waiting for the tender bud of spring.

Gazing out window
A moment for reflection
Oolong tea to drink

For a more oblique haiku, I offer:

Sixteen stories high
Peregrine falcon rides wind
Traffic snarls below

Lilacs…a haibun for dVerse

This is one of my first attempts at haibun, although I’ve done a number of haiku before.  I welcome constructive criticism but please be kind.  🙂

(A note for the other haibun writers: I’ll be out of town until Tuesday, so I won’t have much time to read and comment.  But I’ll get to your posts as soon as I can and look forward to it.)

 

 

Clothes-drying racks
stand before open windows,
the robust breezes of Illinois spring
rolling endless waves of lilac-perfumed air through the house.

Will I wonder one day soon
whose lilac scent was too near my husband
during his day at work,
when the subtle scent twitches my nose
as my hug welcomes him home?

How can a fragrance from a hundred blooms
be more delicate yet pervasive
than the tsunami of perfume
that numbs my senses
when an overly-bedaubed women
prances past my shrinking olfactory passages?

Nature’s sweet perfume
Beauty in the form of scent
Artifice is shamed

Spring haibun

Dipping my toe into the haibun pond today.  Haibun is a combination of poetic prose and a haiku.  Hopefully I’m getting it right.

Earth is in upheaval. Spring flowers push mightily, forcing their way out of cold, dark soil; rejoicing, reaching for the sun (so far a pale disappointment but better than life in the world of Persephone and Hades.) Translucent green swathes incipient daffodils awaiting their rebirth. From under last year’s clinging leaves peek tips of green and varied colors, each day growing as if receiving infusions of bamboo hormones. Friends bring us a gift of pussy willows, a perfect paradox of the announcement of spring (though not green and no longer growing), a mixture of hard and soft for years to come.

Soft grey cat’s paws cling
Climbing woody stems in spring
Decorate my hearth