Our Host: Ann E. Burg
Ann lives in upstate New York with her husband and her scarededy-cat dog. She was a teacher for ten years and is now a mostly-middle-grade author. Drawn to stories of the disenfranchised and voiceless, she usually finds inspiration in little known or too-soon-forgotten historical incidents. Though she’s no longer teaching, Ann continues to be interested in the challenges children and young adults face. Her books reflect her sincere desire to engage readers in stories which will broaden their world view and help create a more just society.
Inspiration
This year, more than ever, I’ve been preoccupied with peace, not just those elusive personal moments of quiet time to read or write, but peace in the grand possibility of a kinder world and a healed planet. Everything I experience seems to be filtered through this lens, this longing. Today’s poem is a haibun which captures a moment when this lens and longing came into sharper focus.
Process
A haibun is a literary form popularized by the Japanese poet Basho and introduced to me during a previous year’s Verse Love. In the haibun, a prose poem presents a scene which is accompanied by a haiku (three lines with a 5-7-5 syllable pattern) offering a deeper reflection. I’ve found that writing the paragraph or prose poem organizes my thoughts while the haiku distills them. There are many online examples of Basho’s haibuns written as he traveled throughout Japan, but there are also many present day sites dedicated to this form.
Ann’s Haibun
When the days of mourning had passed, the sympathy plants left at the funeral home were offered to family members. The smaller arrangements— the ivy, and singular succulents were snapped up first, then the mixed baskets, the dish gardens, and finally (with some convincing) one of the mourners agreed to adopt the graceful white orchid whose loveliness would certainly be worth any extra effort. All that was left was the 2 foot Peace Plant with its large, glossy, green leaves and tiny yellow flowers shielded by white, petal-like spathes. Few of the last mourners had room in their car for the Peace Plant. And where would anyone keep such a beautiful but unwieldy remembrance? I’ll take it, I said, my voice unusually loud and decisive. In a universe on fire, it suddenly seemed I needed the Peace Plant more than anything. I’ll find a place for her.
Green winged messenger
landed in my cluttered home,
bless this world with peace.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own haibun. Begin with a brief paragraph that describes a clarifying moment. Follow with a haiku which distills that moment into something more sublime.
Because this is a public space, depending on your privacy preferences, you may choose to use only your first name or initials. Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers.
From “get to work early” and “traffic will be crazy” to listening to sweet sounds of crickets and frogs, relaxing as astronauts lift off and break sound barriers, I live and breathe with my feet on the ground, as others fly off with us enthralled onlookers from all over abound
Living on Space Coast
Visitors price-gouged hotels
I watch in my yard
Oh, Ann, how I love a peace lily! Your haibun created beautiful images and emotions.
I can’t ever get my peace lilies to blossom but the green leaves are still thriving. Thank you for hosting us and for bringing me back to Haibun. I think I’ve only written this form twice so it was nice to return to it.
Haibun of Hope for Humanity
Somewhere above the blanket of cottony clouds, I believe there’s a gathering of freedom-fighter spirits. I believe these spirits sing the blues. Somewhere above the steel gray rain clouds, I believe the light tempts the dark. I believe the earth asks for healing.
Humans suffering
Hatred leads. Love conquers all
Awakens new hope
©Stacey L. Joy, 4/13/26
Stacey, I love your haibun of hope! I am going to hold on that image of freedom-fighters gathering above the clouds…and like you believe the earth asks for healing. This is simply beautiful.
I just love your pride, Stacey. From the cottony clouds to the gathering of freedom-fighter spirits, it’s perfect. Love the Canva, too.
That should say prose, not pride!
LOL, I was okay with you loving my pride! 🤣
Amen! I love the hope in your words — “I believe the light tempts the dark. I believe the earth asks for healing”
Stacey, the prevailing hope in this poem is so essential. What makes it so powerful is how you ground it in trouble and in blues. Your poem describes hope despite the storm clouds. And that is so powerful.
Stacey, amen to awakening hope! Such a poetic, incredibly-worded prose from the beginning to the haiku. Love “above the blanket of cottony clouds,” which makes me think of angels protecting the Earth. The Canva image of cloudy skies magnifies the message of hope.
Oh, yes, Stacey! I love you pride and your prose! 🙂 This is gorgeous. I love the idea of light tempting darkness. In charge, it is, that light! Everything is beautiful about this–the title, your hope in humanity, the prose and haiku, so wonderful.
Stacey, your haibun is so touching and timely. “Hatred leads. Love conquers all/
Awakens new hope” That hope is what we need right now. We hope love triumphs over all the hatred in the world. We need peace in our world.
Stacey,
There’s something so tender in “the earth asks for healing” really stays with me. the reach toward light, even through the gray… it feels like a quiet, steady kind of faith that you and your poetry carry.
Sarah
Stacey,
I love when I read your poetry. It is always so powerful and though provoking.
I love the invitation to write a haibun, where context comes first and then the sparcity of the haiku. You describe it perfectly with the prose organizing the thoughts and the haiku distilling them. I picked a much less emotion-filled topic for my haibun today–a sea anemone. You can see the photographs on my blog: https://thinkingthroughmylens.com/2026/04/13/anemone-haibun-npm26-13/
Deceptively benign to view, sea flowers blossom in the harsh environment of the tide pool. These beautiful flowers are actually sea anemones, described as “predatory marine invertebrates,” animals designed to paralyze their prey with their venomous tentacles. These carnivorous chameleons sometimes cover themselves in shells—looking like sprinkle-covered donuts rather than fierce, long living sea life. I love to photograph them, noticing the ways their colors change with the light and water, and reveling in their resilience.
Disguised as flowers
Beckoning prey with a wave
Anemone strikes
I loved reading about sea anemone— your photographs are awesome!, especially the shell wreath. Stunning. Great haiku too….beckoning prey with a wave,,,so clever!
Kim — Love this description –“looking like sprinkle-covered donuts rather than fierce, long living sea life” and the way you’ve captured these unique and amazing creatures in a snapshot. So cool!
I learn a lot about sea creatures from your photos and posts, Kim. So beautiful. I love the photos too, with the sprinkle-donut of the attacking anemone.
Kim,
I love that reveal—“sprinkle-covered donuts” to quiet predator is such a shift. you make me look closer, and a little differently. that last line lands sharp—beauty and danger held in the same small, tidal breath.
Sarah
Kim,
You paint the anemone in such a devious light with such a powerful image!
Ann,
Thank you for this gorgeous message of peace. May ye “green-winged messenger” be w/ us all.
This haibun is a response to our brief stop yesterday at China Beach near Danang, Vietnam.
My Khe Beach
[haibun]
Salty sea waves wash ashore on China Beach where American G.I.s found R&R during the bloody Vietnam War. I dip my toes into the water as history splashes through my mind. Half a century has passed since the last helicopter blades whirled atop CIA headquarters in Saigon. This Vietnam is the antithesis of the past frozen in my memory. I struggle to reconcile competing realities crashing through my brain like waves on rocky shores.
time plays memory tricks
like sand eroding sea glass
softening its sharp edge
Glenda Funk
April 14, 2026
Oh, what a poetic treasure this is. The language and word choice are so amazing. I love the personalization you added, describing it as “My Khe Beach” and the line “I struggle to reconcile competing realities…” wow, so true. Your haiku is a perfect distillation of the then and now of this beach.
Did you see Erica Johnson’s poem about Hiroshima? It reminds me of yours.
Glenda, your Haibun is rich with sensory appeal. I love how you open with the waves washing ashore and carrying this imagery throughout the entire piece especially with the struggles reconciling the competing realities. Your haiku is stunning. Love the sensory appeal in it, too, especially the softening the sharp edge. Brilliant poem!
Glenda, your story and haiku are profound, but the way you use language to deliver a message is sophisticated and so effective. The way you arrange sounds in the beginning is an artful dance of alliterating sounds “salty sea,” “waves wash” that are immediately followed by consonance “washed ashore.” My linguist heart is rejoicing. You do the same in the last prose sentence and in the haiku too with “sand,” “sea glass, and “softening.” Incredible!
So beautiful, Glenda. Your haiku is magical.
Glenda, amazing haibun. I too have images of Vietnam frozen in my memory and your metaphor comparing memory tricks to sand eroding sea glass is perfect! I love this…
Glenda — The way you juxtapose the Vietnam of the past with the Vietnam of today where you dip your toes into the water is really powerful. It really is incredible that both those realities exist.
Glenda – Having such strong feelings about the travesty of the Vietnam War, I really feel the contrast between then and now, “the competing realities.” I love the “sea glass”… rubbed edges. Lovely. Susie
Glenda,
This poem is exactly why this form is so powerful. Your prose passage is full of complexities that describe a complex time and relationship to time and memory. Mad then your haiku creates an image—sand eroding sea glass/softening its sharp edges—that stunningly exemplifies that complexity.
The blend of past and present is so good in your poem. “Memory tricks” is real. P.S. please have many bowls of pho for me as I live somewhere where pho doesn’t exist 😭😭
Glenda,
Place feels so deeply held in the way you stand in one place and let time layer itself there. “history splashes through my mind” is such a powerful hinge between past and present. And your traveling eye of witnessing, questioning, reconciling (not reconciling), gosh, toes in the sand on the actual place feels like its own kind of resharpening of memory.
Sarah
love that haiku ending so mich.
Ann,
Thank you for your prompt today and for bringing the haibun form to us. And I love the last few lines of your prose paragraph, pointing out the unwieldiness of the plant and then the decision to take it home to combat a “universe on fire”. Perfect!
Haibun for the waning moments of late stage capitalism
0f all the disturbing trends in this new normal,
it might be the turn toward complete commodification
that is the most definingly dystopian. Polymarkets
pander to our thirsty compulsion to bet on anything.
Wars, elections, births, deaths, hookups, infidelities…
We sell million dollar visas while deporting the most
vulnerable refugees. We sell pardons and state secrets
and personal data and even countries over which we have
no claim. What won’t we sell?
What won’t it feed on–
Ecstatic, will it know if
it’s eating itself?
Dave – Your voice is clear and strong. I would like to read this in The New Yorker… it’d be great there. The bite of your listing… sharp and spot on. Then, the haiku… excellent… “eating itself.” Uff! Dang! Good stuff! Thank you for the hardhitting… it resonates so so …so damned true. Susie
Dave, as a formerly reticent but recently rebel-ized grandmother, I love this! What kind of world have we become? I hope there will be a reversal soon, Orban’s defeat encourages me as does your haibun. It is raw and honest and the voice we need to hear.
Mic drop poem!! Please let it eat itself!
Dave –This line really struck me “complete commodification/that is the most definingly dystopian.” It reminded me of Ready Player One where desparate people play virtual reality games in search of an Easter Egg that will bring them out of poverty. Your poem really captures the sad truth of our current reality and “new normal.”
Oh, Dave, this was eye-opening. I’m no economist, but your poem teaches a lot with such dystopian truth. It makes so much sense. Crazy! “late stage capitalism” to be sure.
Hi Ann,
I love the Haibun. Thank you for bringing it back today and thank you for your beautiful poem.I think we all need peace plants in our current climate.
Waiting to be Seen
The rain pounds in staccato on my windshield, wipers swishing away the deluge on my predawn commute. I white-knuckle the drive, leaning forward, locked on the taillights ahead—grateful for a lead car when the red blur is all I can see. It’s that kind of angry rain.
Trees bend toward breaking. Utility wires swing. No birds dare linger.
Under a bridge, a brief reprieve—silence—before I emerge back into the pounding rain.
At least the winter salt is sluiced away.
I pull into the school parking lot just as the rain loosens its grip and the sun breaks through. In the faint morning light, a wash of pastels appears—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo—an uncertain rainbow, trying to be seen.
Hidden in storm clouds
A faint uncertain rainbow
Waiting to be seen
I was afraid you’d get drenched when you stepped out of your car ~ what a lovely surprise to find the rain loosened its grip and blessed you with a rainbow, even a cautious one!
Tammi, both your prose’s d haiku are so poetic! Love them both.
Tammi,
Your haiku is so beautiful, especially after the stress of
What a gift of a rainbow! I admire your use of “staccato” to describe the rain – I can ‘feel’ this sound…and what a difference for the reprieve of silence under that bridge. Vivid description! “A faint uncertain rainbow” – this is poignant, I think.
Oh. Tammi.your drive through heavy rain description is so real and relatable. I remember watching the red lights in front of me to stay in my lane. The rainbow at the end is nature’s miracle. I, too, thought, you might get soaked through on the way out of the car, but was met with “A faint uncertain rainbow /Waiting to be seen.” So beautiful!
Ditto on each of the comments. Your choice to use of poetic tools of sensory images and onomatopoeia in your prose segment drew us in to the tension, then your poem released us.
Tammi-
This is a stunning description of driving through heavy, unrelenting rain. This line:
I’ve been following that car so many, many times! And I love how you describe the rainbow as “uncertain”. It’s a perfect juxtaposition for the rain and a great metaphor for the possibilities of the day ahead.
A perfect haibun! I could feel the fierce energy of the rain…no birds dare linger… and then that rainbow! The perfect haiku!
Tammi,
This is terrifying and I hate when I am on the road in that kind of rain! And you captured the silence under the bridge, that’s when I exhaled. The haiku is soothing. Happy you arrived safely!!
Tammi, I love the faint rainbow and the named colors in your prose. Lovely. “angry rain” –what a great description of the rain you encountered and described so well with all the sensory details.
The distant hooting that breaks the silence. That hum of the dehumidifier in the corridor. A needed air purifier hisses gently. Silence is my master lately. That peace and quiet, although I am searching for answers about the goings on in our world, I have the news silenced so I glance at the pictures that keep me company. “Silence is golden, “ as the saying goes. The fridge immediately reminds me of its presence by shaking a little. Then the hush surrounds me once more.
Life on the sixth floor
blocks sounds from life below, so
silence meets me here
Juliette! “silence is my master lately”—that stays with me. the hush, the small sounds, the choosing what to let in… it feels like a quiet kind of protection. and maybe a way to keep going.
Peace,
Sarah
Juliette,
I’m right there with you in needing the silence. With all the commotion in the world it is sometimes hard to find. I love the power in your last line of haiku — “silence meets me here”
Life on the sixth floor seems like a perfect respite from the troubles of the world— if it weren’t for that shaking fridge…glad it was just a little shake 😉 Oh, and sometimes the only way to watch the news is without the sound off!
Juliette, I love that the news is silenced – – yes, I am there with you. I’ll take the hum of the fridge any day, and the silence too, over the dreadful news. I feel the peace in your lines.
Juliette,
Both your prose and your haiku are so calming and comforting with the familiar noises of “silence,”
Thank you for this cozy respite.
I am fascinated that you dare to see pictures of the news but keep the sound off – I’m not sure I could go “halfsies” like that. (I tend to read my news these days/no sound for me either) Without a doubt – silence is golden, and I love that haiku.
Boat Launch
By Mo Daley 4-13-26
We took the boat out for the inaugural 2026 ride tonight. There are hundreds of homes on the lake, yet it was just Steve, our two new dogs, a little rosé, and me. There was no one else on the lake on this glorious evening. We saw great blue herons, coots, cormorants, and what we think was an osprey. We toddled around for nearly two hours, enjoying the peace, the quiet. This may be one of my favorite spring evenings ever.
the dogs, the boat, Steve,
birds, rosé, tranquility,
spring’s gift of repose
Oh, yes. A gift, indeed!
Mo,
I love this “spring’s gift of repose” really lingers—like the whole evening slowed down just enough to notice it. the quiet lake, the dogs, the birds… it feels like being let in on something rare and fleeting.
Sarah
What a lovely evening! and perfect haiku…spring’s gift of repose ~ beautiful!
Mo — sounds like a gloriously relaxing boat ride! Definitely “spring’s gift of repose”!
Mo, there is such serenity on the water, and when you can take dogs and watch birds and have a glass of wine in hand and be with the one you love – – in the lovely spring weather – – what more could there be to love??
Lovely, Mo.
Thanks for bringing us along for this tranquil ride.
“no one else on the lake” – that is glorious! I can imagine it. Love that line “birds, rosé, tranquility,” and that final word “repose.”
Aaaah! I love the listy haiku. I see why it’s a favorite!
Mo, thanks for sharing this relaxing and calm atmosphere.
SENIOR HOUR AT COSTCO
The parking lot is already packed at 9:50; I’m late to Senior Hour. Seems like everyone is a senior anymore, so much for the exclusive treatment. I scan the shoppers, feeling like the oldest person in the bustle to grab a cart and fall into line so the greeter and the card checker machine can beep us into the must-have buys lined up in the entry, pallet after pallet of toothpaste and sunscreens and vitamins and spring bulbs. Don’t slow down to return your card to your wallet or you’ll be rear-ended by the guy making a beeline to the rotisserie chickens. List in hand, I vow to stick to my list, till I see the telescoping loppers and the garden gloves. I am, after all, gearing up to do some backyard landscaping. List Schmisst, I veer to the deck umbrellas. An hour later, my Apple Watch vibrates… I’ve already met my daily step goal, and I’ve still got to grab a chicken. Maybe today I’ll have a buck-fifty hot dog for an early lunch.
Costco is my drug;
much better than day-drinking;
call it Senior Crack.
by Susie Morice © April 13, 2026
Oh, wow, Susie, you have written about my sister and I’s trips to Costco. (Keith is a bit of a dud there.) So fun! Everyone who goes to Costco can relate to some of this, seniors to all of it. “much better than day-drinking” definitely. Do you remember when Costco had Polish sausages with a pickle spear as another menu item by the hotdogs? I think they were 99 cents back then. So yummy; I always miss having that for lunch.
We’ve no Cosco in the area but every time I ask my sister-in-law where she’s bought something new (lawn chair, beach chair, towel…) it seems to be from Cosco so I thoroughly enjoyed shopping with you…
Susie— I went to a suburban Costco (a Costco virgin) yesterday. MAdness!! Love the Senior crack comment.
Susie,
This had me laughing the whole way through—“List Schmisst” is too real. That Costco pull is no joke. I love how the chaos, the carts, the chicken chase all turn into this oddly triumphant little adventure. Senior Hour as a full-contact sport—I’m in.
Sarah
Susie — Costco is certainly and adventure. Loved your humor “or you’ll be rear-ended by the guy making a beeline to the rotisserie chicken” and totally relate to “vow to stick to my list”, yet not doing so. “Senior Crack!” –LOL!
Susie, delightful! Senior hour at Costco, and my uncle also talks about this all the time, how he gets there early and gets all the things he needs. The image of getting rear ended by the guy making a beeline to the rotisserie chickens is just hilarious! Like Senior Bumper Cars – – (I can see folks wearing inner tubes at the hips to avoid the buggy bumps). Definitely spring for the hot dog, and I love the haiku that brings this all home to a hilarious roar! Applause, applause!
Susie,
Love the humor you’ve brought to an ordinary chore.
So funny.
Hahaha, I burst out laughing at “List Schmisst, I veer to the deck umbrellas.’ I can totally relate. And your haiku is so fun! (Though I do get a different mental image of “Senior Crack.”)
Susie, I’m still laughing! Love the humor in your haiku especially the day drinking and crack references. The whole scanning your card and feeling the push and shove is striking in your Haibun. I know I’d shop Costco more often if it wasn’t ninety minutes away. I do know where and when the local senior discounts are though! Fun Haibun!
You so capture the addictive qualities of Costco–and without even mentioning the food samples! I’m definitely chuckling!
Ann, thank you for hosting today and offering the haibun form. It’s one of my favorites. Your haibun is resonated for me. I’m so glad the narrator was able to take the peace plant and adore the opening line of your haiku. I’ve been pondering the cruelty of others lately. How we bear witness to unexpected tragedies and acts of violence. I grapple with deliberate cruelty and cannot fathom why people often fail to intervene. My haibun is based on a true incident that happened over forty years ago, an indelible memory.
My boyfriend and I are invited to go camping one hot day in July. We immediately agree, thrilled to spend time boating on Coralville Lake. The sun is brilliant, the water’s cool. A perfect summer day to share with friends. I look forward to grilling hamburgers and making smores as we dock the boat. We head towards our tents when a burly, grizzled man passes by us. He’s cursing and has a cattle prod in his hand. We turn back around when we hear a scream and see him jabbing the prod against his daughter’s thick thighs.
summer’s sun
vanishes, shadows whirl,
a cruel chill reigns
Barb Edler
13 April 2026
Barb, talk about spoiling all the fun! I love how you told the story. Then the haiku makes me think it’s not over yet–something else may happen. You managed to create suspense in thirteen syllables. Awesome!
Barb,
Your prose and haibun has left an indelible mark. I liked how you brought back a memory from the past and repurposed for such poetic prose. The haibun is smart and encapsulates your scene– just right.
Barb,
The cruelty in your haibun is visceral and a stark contrast to the idyllic scene your words paint. I understand the reason this memory is so much a part of your psyche. That cattle prod functions symbolically for me, as dose the old man, a ghostly spirit embodying the one welding a metaphorical cattle prod now.
HOLY MOSES! How horrible, Barb — I just was blown away by the cruelty. The image of the lovely day just EXPLODED when I read the last line. Oh my gosh… a “cruel chill” indeed. This just really rattled me. Your timing in the description is incredible. I can’t shake how this hit me hard. Oh man. I’m sorry you every witnessed such a horror. But I’m just heartbroken for that daughter. Susie
Oh, dear, Barb, what a story. That is so sad and evil. “his daughter’s thick thighs” is such a precise description. And that haiku–you are so good at them. the sun goes and “a cruel chill reigns” So palpable.
Barb, no wonder you never forgot this incident, I’m not sure I will either..the excitement and beauty of the day, hamburger and smokes… the last line of your prose is chilling and the entire afternoon perfectly captured in your haiku.
Barb, that poor child! Your haibun depicts the scene unfolding – horrifying, chilling, abusive. I can imagine how you must have felt shock and disbelief all at once, and I can’t imagine how the girl must have felt being victimized in this way. Such a contrast to the perfect summer day, and it makes us realize that our perfect days still hold injustices we will never see happening. Your last line transcends time and arrives in the now, here, today with all that our world is witnessing. Truth in verse, captured masterfully.
Barb,
Wow—this turn just knocks the breath out of me. that shift from “perfect summer day” to “a cruel chill reigns”… it’s so sudden and so real. the way joy collapses like that—hard to shake. I’m still sitting with it.
Sarah
Barb — Wow! What an unexpected turn of events. How terrible that must have been to witness. Definitely “a cruel chill reigns.” I can see how that moment is seared in your memory.
I certainly understand how this was an indelible memory – a horrific one. That dear child, I hope someone intervened. I am reminded that cruelty is not new, though it feels as if we are drowning in cruelty these days. I admire how you finessed “flipping the script” with your words, setting such a lovely scene – and then, wham! “a cruel chill reigns” Thank you, Barb
Thanks for the inspiration and challenge, Ann. This proved the perfect form to explore my thoughts after a busy day.
That sense of calm from last week is gone. You remember how good Spring Break feels, right? Freedom, unwinding, finding a slower pace, but today was the first day back. There were half a million things to do (not a full million because today was a PD day). There’s also that lengthy list of all the things I was going to accomplish last week with all the free Spring Break time, but I was so busy resting and resetting that I barely got any of that accomplished. And now my classroom looks mostly like it did before the break started. At least the plants are still green, though. No death by drought on Spring Break. And I have several random experiments planned for the students, and testing is approaching, and we still have 10 lessons to go in this unit. It’s not the final unit of the curriculum, but I’ve opted for quality over quantity. We have 24 days left, but wait, there are assemblies, celebrations, games, pep rallies, state testing days, final exams, field trips, and things that haven’t made it to the calendar yet. 11 undisturbed days–maybe.
I can choose panic
running from second to hour
or enjoy the kids
That “maybe” is the truth, isn’t it, David? Your “build up” at the end of the prose passage is really well done, really effective! There’s always something that we forget in the planning, something else that unravels our carefully laid plans, lol, which makes me love your haiku even more: avoid the panic and “enjoy the kids.” (Although it’s much easier said than done, lol!)
I felt all of this (with the exception of a restful spring break as I was traveling with students). Returning to the classroom and nothing has changed (mine wasn’t cleaned!). Then the chaotic pace at the end of your prose piece mirrors the end of year pace. Nicely done.
I enjoyed this David— I especially enjoyed that the business of resting and resetting kept you from accomplishing all you hoped to accomplish,,,I’m no longer teaching but still have those days,,,and am really glad that you chose to enjoy the kids!
It’s been awhile since I retired from all this, David. Your prose brings it all back and I am in awe of what you and teachers do. It is more complicated and busy now. I am glad you had some calm last week and your classroom survived. A good attitude you have “enjoy the kids.”
David, your story was very much like mine. We, too, were on a spring break las week, and I worked every single day and still have a gazillion things to do, so I hear you. I like how you built up tension, and I found myself reading quicker through the second part of the prose. The haiku invites to make a choice, and I hope you choose kids. Thank you for sharing!
David — You brought back the nightmares I used to have about never ever catching up. The lists are never-ending. You have definitely created a very real sense of “panic” that I used to feel. And that you’ve chosen “the kids” is such a blessing. For you and the kids… all that heavy curriculum deadline malarkey means nothing compared to the connection with kids that helps them love learning and love school. Good for you. Susie
Yes, totally relate! Spring Break is never long enough and then when we return there’s never enough days to get it all in. You nail it with your last line “enjoy the kids” — most important for sure. A good reminder of why we are in the profession we are in.
David,
I can tell you’re going to chose to
Good for you and for the kids. They will remember you for it and also learn more because you are calmer and more connected to them.
I feel as if I’m right there with you, running through the checklist, giving myself a pep talk. I was always amazed by how short the school year was upon return from spring break. I love the first line of your haiku – “I can choose panic” … and I froze a moment upon reading it, thinking, oh my, yes, we can just panic…but you slide right into the perfect wisdom: enjoy the kids!
David,
This is great! I love the idea of choosing not to give in to the rat race of impossible expectations as the school year throws unexpected obstacles in our path every year as the days wind down. I hope that you do get a chance to enjoy the kids!
I settled on describing a scene from yesterday at the airport in Frankfurt, Germany because it still seems so crazy.
Walking up to Gate Z5 in the Frankfurt airport, my mind was awash with tasks to complete before boarding. There was a photo challenge to finalize with prizes to award. And seat assignments to map out for the most advantageous seating for all. Thank you notes to hand out. A solid breakfast to find. When I heard my first name, I thought it was one of the adults traveling with me (though in hindsight, none of them referred to me as anything other than Ms. Mann). I turned quickly, searching the seats where I knew my group was sitting and then suddenly my eyes alighted on a woman standing in front of me. A woman I knew from Louisville. I uttered some exclamation of surprise and pulled her in for a hug. Over the next few minutes she explained how her husband saw my geocaching shirt and knew she needed to say hi to me, that when she had looked at the person he was pointing to, she realized she knew me. We marveled at how we could travel halfway around the world and end up on the exact same flights home.
moment of surprise
geocaching travelers
can find anything
Cheri, that is pretty crazy! (What’s the old Steven Wright joke, “It’s a small world, but I wouldn’t want to paint it.”) I love how apt and distilled your haiku is: “moment of surprise / geocaching travelers / can find anything.” This had me smiling wide!
Well done Cheri! I enjoyed your lovely writing and clever pulling it all together with your haiku at the end. I’ve traveled through the Frankfurt airport many times, can picture the Z terminal and can’t imagine what a surprise to spontaneously run into someone you know there. It’s a beautiful reminder of what a small world it is after all. Thanks for sharing your writing
Well I wasn’t expecting that! Great story and clever haiku…
Cheri, at one time we were geocachers and loved the hobby, but we got busy again and stopped going on these fun adventures. I’m so glad you travel and enjoy doing this around the world.
Cheri– What a cool and unexpected end to your trip. It is definitely a small world. Seven degrees of separation from Kevin Bacon, right? Or in your case seven degrees of separation from Louisville.
Cheri, yes! So crazy! What a great way you told the story here. And so sweet that it was geocaching travelers making that perfect analogy of finding in your haiku.
Ann, of course, you took the Peace Lily. I hope it brings you comfort and kind memories. Love your haibun with the final prose sentence: “In a universe on fire, it suddenly seemed I needed the Peace Plant more than anything. I’ll find a place for her.”
Here is my offering.
The Taste of Welcome
When I tell people about our Crimean Tatar way of welcoming guests, I begin with coffee. Back home, no one asks if you’re hungry or thirsty. We assume you are. The cezve goes on the stove as soon as the door opens, before greetings find their place, before coats slip from shoulders. The room fills with the rich aroma of Arabica, and the table gathers what it can: cookies from a cupboard, sugar cubes, a small handful of dried fruit or nuts. Nothing elaborate, just enough to say: You are not outside anymore.
If the guest lingers, the visit drifts into the kitchen. We talk while chopping vegetables, stirring pots, setting out plates. What begins as a visit becomes a small shared life, an hour or an evening, woven into the rhythm of our home. For us, guests are not interruptions; they become part of our day, our dinner, our family.
cezve on the stove
before words settle between us,
coffee crosses hands
*Cezve (or dzezve) is a Turkish coffee pot
Now I want to come and visit and be made to feel llike family! And experience your Cezve, because I don’t think I’ve had coffee from a turkish coffee pot. I loved this line: “For us, guests are not interruptions; they become part of our day, our dinner, our family.” It made wish for a visit with a friend who feels this way about guests and it planted a longing in my heart to BE this kind of friend and host.
This is such a beautiful moment. It reminds us of what life can be like when we step back from the transactional nature of capitalism. Thanks for welcoming us in. I feel like I was there with you, experiencing, understanding.
Leilya, I love the hospitality shared here. Loved the lines: “Nothing elaborate, just enough to say: You are not outside anymore.”
I also appreciate how you show what happens if the guest lingers. I am not surprised by this generosity and feel embraced by the wonderful smell of Arabica coffee.
Leilya, whatever form they take, your poems always make me wish you lived next door— your memories, your words, a sugar cube, a small handful of dried nuts. And even before words, the coffee that crosses hands, Such simple gestures, such profound meaning.
Leilya,
Such a beautiful and thoughtful way to capture your culture. Appreciate the warm welcome within your poetry that’s filled with delight and simple pleasures. Perhaps they can take a front seat instead of the worries. Thank you.
Leilya — Oh, I love the custom, the stepping into the moment and giving it time and breath… if we ALL had this custom of slowing down to appreciate each other over coffee (or tea or whatever), think how much better life would be. The title “Taste of Welcome” is just right. This oughta be in our Constitution! Thank you for sharing such a lovely slice of Crimea. Susie
Oh if the world could be filled with this much welcoming!
Leilya— please invite me! This phrase, and your poem…You are not outside anymore.
Please???
Gayle, as we used to say, meeting new friends, “If you find yourself in Crimea, stop by!” Well, I am now in Louisiana. Please, come by when around. I always have coffee, tea, cold drinks, and what not 🥰
Leilya, what a beautiful way to welcome others, with a pot of coffee – – nothing says presence like sit with me and let’s sip a cup together.
Leilya,
Your poem is indeed an offering.
Thank you for welcoming us.
I can see hands making quick work of this traditional welcome.
I like your phrasing of “the table gathers” as if this is gesture so steeped in tradition that even the table is involved.
And how inclusive is
Thank you for your poem that is an offering, a lesson, an embrace.
Leilya, so lovely! I love the pot going on the stove “as the door opens” and “What begins as a visit becomes a shared life…” Wow!
The result was unmistakable–two definite red lines within seconds of administering the test. “Oh God…now what?” Pregnant again at 40, I very much wanted this child, wanted to share this experience with my new fiance, but I didn’t even think it was possible. My thoughts were a flurry…could I handle this again, at my “geriatric” age? Would the baby be healthy? Tom and I shared our shock and fear and joy that evening as we started planning…setting a definite wedding date two months in the future, telling my 10-year-old that he was going to be a big brother. So much crazy, happy, terror-filled chaos. That night, I had an incredibly vivid dream. I remember now only one powerful image from the dream–a little blond cherub holding my hand, looking up at me, and saying, “My name is Lily.” I knew, beyond a doubt, that this was the child I was carrying.
The pregnancy progressed with no issues or problems, and soon we discovered that the baby was a girl. There was never a question of what her name would be. When she was born, we opted to name her Lillian, after Tom’s godmother, but I knew she would be Lily. Our little Lillian Joy.
Child from heaven,
named for new life and blessing–
she holds the future.
I loved reading this and could feel your fear, joy, anticipation! I had my last child (a surprise) at 36, and throughout my pregnancy I was constantly bombarded by the medical field with concerns about my “advanced maternal age.” I found your poem to inspire nostalgia in me and it made me smile. I hope you enjoy your Lily is the immense blessing to you that my Jadyn is to me.
Julie, I love how you open this haibun. I am immediately pulled into the scene which resonates for me as I experienced an unexpected pregnancy later in life. A child who has blessed me over and over again. The dream is riveting. What a wonderful experience to share. Your haiku says it all!
Julie, what a beautiful story! The dreams sometimes are the best forsayers. Lillian, Lily is a child from heaven. Thank you for sharing!
This gave me goose bumps. Amazing story, amazing dream…beloved Lily!
Julie — Such a sweet tale this is…so lovingly described. The “chaos” of it is so honest, and I’m so glad that Lily is happily and healthy in your life now. Such a huge, important memory. Susie
Julie, what a blessing indeed! Congratulations on your little girl who holds the future and through whom you touch it each day.
Oh, Julie, what a joyful post! Lillian Joy, precious. I so love the line “she holds the future” (Isn’t that hilarious that they called these “geriatric” pregnancies? Both my daughters’ pregnancies when they were in their 30s were considered geriatric. I’m glad they pay special attention to y’all, but another name would be in order, I think.)
April is the cruelest month
At least, that’s what T.S. Eliot says. And he’s not wrong, or at least not entirely wrong, because April definitely has its challenges, coming as it does near the end of the academic year, spring and yet not spring within the same day. Take today, for example. I woke up to condensation on my windows and fog I couldn’t see through when I walked the dog. I almost stepped on a toad because I couldn’t see it in the fog, and the dog thought perhaps he needed to investigate that toad. Might he eat it? No, Jason. No. I brought an umbrella with me to campus since it looked like it might rain, even though the weather radar showed nothing. But then it was humid and warm, making my raincoat feel like a wearable sauna. Students complained that the heat was still on in the classroom, and my explanation that “the powers that be only want to turn off the heat once” were small consolation. There might be thunderstorms tonight, or there might not. I hope not, because thunder-phobic pony dog wants to be in the basement during storms, while I prefer sleeping in my bed, thank you very much.
But weather is only one unpredictable factor of April. There’s also the looming set of deadlines for final products. Factor in student panic and MA thesis defense time, and it doesn’t matter that I’m caught up (for the moment) with grading. I emailed a student who has canceled yet another meeting with me to get her caught up from her absences (which she added one more to today): “Let me know when the gaps in your schedule are.” Then I realized that I don’t have any gaps in my schedule. How will this work, assuming she responds to my email?
And it’s concert weekend, which means I am hauling my harp, possibly in rainstorms, four times this week. That adds one more level of frantic to my afternoon. Hurry, feed pets! Hurry, write my poem! Hurry, walk the dog one more time!
The dog walk calmed me
Happy boy sniffing the world
Mommy, time to chill
I love the juxtaposition of the wild schedule of April and the calm of the dog walk. My post for today is similarly focused on the busyness of the month. We have to live it, but we can choose to live it on our terms whenever possible.
Sheila, I absolutely adore your haibun. I can hear the narrator’s tone and can completely relate to the student failing to meet once again but somehow, it’s on you to figure out when this person can make up all they’ve missed. The temperature and rain adding another level of torment into the mix is relatable, too. April definitely can be cruel! Your haiku offers a ray of sunshine and hope!
Sheila, I hear you, my poet-friend! My April also feels like a hectic marathon. At least, I can’t complain too much about the weather. It is warm, humid, but mostly sunny during the day. Your haiku slows down your fast-paced rhythm; it made me think of the “Stay Calm”-signs: “Stay calm and keep walking the dog.”
Ooh, there’s a t-shirt in that . . . or at least a bumper sticker.
Sheila, your prose portion of the haibun reminded Millay’s poem which ends, It is not enough that yearly down this hill/April /comes like an idiot babbling and strewing flowers. I wonder now if she was stuck in a wearable sauna, stepping on frogs during concert week. Something to think about…grateful for the happy boy calmed you!
at the edge
Tiny little nondescript bug wiggles its way along the riverbank. Perhaps “nondescript bug” is a contradiction in terms. Wouldn’t the average three year old hold it in fine distinction, squealing with delight or fear?
I watch as the bug makes its way around a rock, through the grassy reed, along the muddy soil. Slowly but surely. Determined. That rock must be ten times the size of this bug. Where is this wee being hurrying to and why? Is this hurrying or sauntering? Off on an important errand, I suppose.
Slow down, stop and see, little bug. Take in this view. The water is so blue and clear, no clouds in the sky. Seven sycamore trees standing together, reaching high in sun salutation, silvery bark illuminated by soft fuzz spring growth. How I love this. Tell me, my creepy-crawly friend, you must have great knowledge of ebb and flow. What happens when the tide shifts? Will the water lap over you? I hope not. I need to believe we have both timed our walks well.
sitting alongside
glistening, gentle river
lost in thought
—–
Ann, I hope that 2 foot peace plant continues to thrive under your tender care, and spreads peace throughout this world. I really enjoyed this haiban challenge – even though it was really hard to find my focus/pick a topic.
Such a cool focus on the “tiny little nondescript bug.” I’m still thinking about him and about how differences in size relate to differences in speed. How fast would he be moving if he were our size and moving the same speed relative to size? How different, too, must be his perception of life when it’s lived in such a short amount of time. Thanks for poking my brain and then offering a haiku of peace and tranquility.
I love this Maureen and this is surprising because I don’t much love tiny wiggling bugs. I do however, applaud your wisdom and your hope. Thank you for a change in perspective!
Maureen, you reminded me of the times (long ago, unfortunately) when I used to observe bugs and wondered what they thought about, where they rushed to get. Where did that time go?
Your poet eye notices the beauty here and now: “The water is so blue and clear, no clouds in the sky. Seven sycamore trees standing together, reaching high in sun salutation, silvery bark illuminated by soft fuzz spring growth.” then you made think worry about little “creepy-crawly friend” with this “I need to believe we have both timed our walks well.” The haiku is gorgeous!
You picked a perfect focus, Maureen. I felt I was sitting there with you thinking about the universe and watching that bug wiggle.
My Creations
Nothing prepared me for how much my kids would fight. The pushing, the hair pulling, the toy grabbing – the violence. And the noise: the yelling, the crying, the “she did [this]!!!,” the “he did [that]!!!,” and of course, always, the “MMOOO-ooomm!” Often, they fight over me – my physical self. My lap is not big enough, I don’t have enough sides (or shoulders, or hands), I can’t listen to all of them at once, or make all of their lunches first. They are young, but oh so blind.
why can’t they see
the goodness of the earth belongs
to each of them?
Oh my Gosh! And why can’t they see that a mother’s love only multiplies, never divides! I thoroughly enjoyed reading about your children and the fighting. My kids are separated by a bit of an age gap (8 years), and it seemed it was more about the younger worshipping the older and older shutting out the younger. They are adults now and I am still waiting for magic to happen and for them to realize that they need each other.
I don’t think you want to hear this, but your haibun made me smile…there’s a seven year gap between my kids (grown now and great friends) but I do remember the MMOOO-ooomm days and am confident that however many sides you have, you have enough! After all, you know that the goodness of the earth belongs /to each of them. And you’ll find away to help them discover it.
Rachel, it seems so difficult right now, but it will get better. Your poem reminds me of the morning phone conversations with my daughter, who has a 10 and 7-year-old girl and boy. They, too, fight often when at home, but miss each other terribly if for some reason, one spends a day away somewhere else. Loved reading your story, especially this part: “My lap is not big enough, I don’t have enough sides (or shoulders, or hands), I can’t listen to all of them at once, or make all of their lunches first.”
The question-haiku is amazing.
Rachel — I can’t help but think my mom might have written this very poem. My sibs and I had row after row after row. I know we drove our mom nuts. I hope your kiddos cool their jets and learn from your haibun. Be sure to save it for them. Susie
Rachel—I feel your pain. I felt your pain! Just breathe…
Rachel, wow, “My Creations” juxtaposed with “the goodness of the earth belongs / to each of them” is perfect. And that line about being young, but so blind. Wow. Your description of the fighting is so sensory and powerful. Well done.
I was lucky enough to travel to Japan for Spring Break this year. During my trip I was most drawn to Hiroshima — it is a testament of hope blooming out of devastation. As a poet, I couldn’t help but see the beauty even in the horrors of what was done to that place. I keep trying to capture it in poetry and I think the haibun today is offering me a new format to explore my thoughts. Thank you for reminding me of this poetic form, Ann!
—
“Hiroshima: Then and Now”
There is still a dome of silence that lingers over the park eighty years after such silence was forced upon it. Except, it’s not completely silent. As I stepped away from the memorial plaque and began the pilgrimage to the museum, I took in the signs of life around me. There, on the water, five or six people navigated the Motoyasu River in a rainbow of kayaks and paddle boards. The pale pink of cherry blossoms and the ripple of water there to highlight the pleasures of a warm spring afternoon. Eighty years ago, people were little more than shadows on marble walls. Just as ethereal as the blossoms and the ripples of water, but none of the life. Today, thousands are drawn to the park to bear witness to melted slag and twisted bark — unnatural figures. Eighty years ago not a figure remained. There were only skeletons: shedding hair and flesh in ribbons.
From a garland string
hangs the hopes wished for by all:
Darkness breaks for light.
Oh, I love the hope your poem carries! The rainbow of kayaks, the cherry blossoms, “darkness breaks for light.” This hope, while still honoring the horrible truth of what happened. I can’t even imagining visiting in person. Thanks for sharing this with us.
Erica,
I am glad that you had a chance to visit Japan. What a remarkable job in capturing both the history and the beauty of place and people. I was transported right there with you as you composed your prose and haibun. A beautiful tribute with so much emotions and sensibility.
This is gorgeous. I am riveted by the beautiful life you note now – cherry blossoms, rainbow kayaks, ripples of water. I am particularly moved by your last line “Darkness breaks for light.” – yes, this is always so.
I too love the “rainbow of kayaks and paddle boards” alongside the “pale pink of cherry blossoms.” Light and vibrancy and life after horror. Powerful.
It’s a beautiful scene you captured, full of color that contrasts with the previous darkness. This resonated with me, having recently visited Dachau and seen only darkness.
This is lovely, Erica. Years ago I wrote a poem for the mangled tree growing near the Motoyasu river. I learned that in Japan the trees that survived the bomb are called Hibaku Jumoku (survivor tree). You haibun captures and honors these trees..darkness breaks for light…just beautiful.
Erica, what a beautiful image of hope you created with your haiku! I am glad people are coming to see Hiroshima and pay tribute to those who lost their lives because of the senseless human actions. “Darkness breaks for light” –precious!
Erica, wow, I’m glad you got to go to Hiroshima. I love the details you give us of the now. But the then description is haunting me: “shedding hair and flesh in ribbons.” I love there are hanging “hopes wished for by all”
Haibun on Immigration
They appeared in immigration court, husband and wife trying to get their “papers” to be allowed to stay in the United States. They stood alone full of respect and a heart full of underlying fear. “Where are your children?” the judge asked. “They are awaiting a court hearing in Los Angeles,” the father replied with the use of an interpreter. The family had been separated after crossing the southern border a few months ago. “I can’t rule on your case until you are united again. Who will care for your children, then? I will give you six weeks to get together again and have another court appearance then.” Again, the couple sadly left the courtroom not quite sure what to do next.
Confused and saddened
they wait for their children’s return
to be a family
again.
This form is new to me and I enjoyed reading a few and thinking about it. Thanks, Ann.
Very well said. So many families are in this excruciating limbo.
Susan, thank you for this touching spotlight on the horrors of our immigration system. “Who will care for your children, then?” May all of us – judges, lawyers, citizens alike – keep children and families at the forefront of what we do.
With so many horrifying things happening in our country and our world, the treatment of immigrants both enrages me and brings me to tears. Thank. you for highlighting their plight,
You show us what one single case looks like, the complexity of the whole immigration system, and the irony that the system that separated the family now demands that they reunite before receiving a hearing. It’s with descriptions like these that we can hope to show how heartbreaking it all is.
Susan,
Thanks for your prose and haibun as it points to a very specific issue that so many families are grappling with. Your writing makes the case of this injustice and makes my heart ache. Thank you for capturing this with so much emotion and care.
Thank you for writing and sharing an immigrant story, Susan! The sad reality is that there stories like this throughout the country. How can these people hold onto hope? The poem at the end makes me anxious for this family.
Susan, I love the matter-of-fact way you lay out the appearance in court and the sadness and questions all parties are left with. Immigration is so messed up right now.
Susan, your poem is sad and hopeful. Because I’m aware of your Christian stance of service, I feel confident that you and others on your team will do what you can in the interim to assure the parents that they are not alone without empathy. Thanks for all you do to ease the tension families experience. You help ease the weight of the wait.
Wow. To be a family again. What is happening here???
Ann, thank you for introducing me to the haibun form. You also introduced me to the ritual of distributing sympathy plants. And you beautiful but unwieldy remembrance.
Vincent Valdez – The City I
I dream of an art so transparent that you can look through and see the world. Stanley Kunitz
One afternoon sometime during 2018 my partner and I while strolling through a familiar gallery stepped into a small space housing Vincent Valdez’ painting The City I. The long wall was filled with his 30 foot canvas depicting a modern day Ku Klux Klan. Many of the hooded images stare at the viewer while one looks at their cell phone. The background is black. The hooded figures are in shades of grey. I remember no sounds in the gallery space only the large canvas which filled the longest wall. The images were stirring. I walked back and forth, stepping back with the attempt of taking it in. While my eyes and body moved, the image stilled my breath. Not a peace without conflict, but a peace that seemed to quiet my mind. Not acceptance, but some attempt to take it in. More than a
dozen hooded figures huddled together on a dark night.
one long dark painting
a wall with faces staring
back – a haunting sight
Oh, wow, Jamie…I looked up the painting, and what a haunting sight it is. I especially loved your description of viewing the painting…”walked back and forth, stepping back with the attempt of taking it in.” This is ultimately what we all have to do before real change can happen. Take it all in, rather than shoving it aside or trying to make it small or trying to sugar-coat it. Beautifully done!
no sounds in the gallery space
the image stilled my breath
a haunting sight
What a terrifying, ominous picture. Thank you for this haiban.
Wow. “Not acceptance, but some attempt to take it in.” That is a powerful, powerful thought.
Jamie, I looked up Valdez’s painting and while I couldn’t step back I enlarged the image, to take it in to, as you did, take it in. And even with a screen between me and the painting, something stilled my breath. A haunting painting. A haunting haibun.
Jaime — I am glad you wrote about this. I looked up the picture… geez, creepy. Your description is so provocative. “The images were stirring.” Indeed. And your haiku does justice. I just had a long conversation/text with my niece about art and its capacity to tell honestly the truth of our history. It has become critical that our arts carry the torch of truth, as we watch history being dismantled, redacted, twisted. It will be the arts that save us all…the poetry, the visual arts, the expressive art of dance and music. Your haibun today really matters to me a lot. Thank you for sharing this. Susie
Oh, Jamie, I just went and found the painting “a haunting sight” to be sure. What a great form for an ekphrastic poem.
A Bike Ride Haibun
The wind pushes against me as I pedal powerfully forward. I hear the clanking of chains against the posts of the sailboats docked in cages to my right. The sails aren’t on the lake today. Not when the wind has white-capped the surface of Lake Hefner — a forgotten and unknown escape, yet frequented and crowded esplanade. I sit up tall, lean forward and push, push, push, right, left, right. Leaning forward, pushing pedals against the wind. Thankful it’s wind in my face and not swarms of gnats this day’s loop. Blue, blue sky. Sprinkles of white clouds puffed across portions of the blue. The sun is somewhere there, but even it blows away in the wind. And then! The peace is cracked. By words about trees that Break. Up. The. Wind. But really — they, the trees, don’t do that.
How can I keep peace
after splinters pierce my soul?
Words! Go with the wind!
I love how you portray how tough the bike ride is: “push, push, push, right, left, right.” I feel like I’m standing on bike pedals right alongside you.
Wow! I was with you on the bike ride and felt every pedaled-push, ( also thankful it was wind and not gnats). I felt the break too…and the wind pushing you!
Amber,
I could feel all the action and sound bytes of this prose and haibun. What a wonderful combo of so many images, metaphors, and rhythm as you take the readers on the ride. I enjoyed the line about the swarms of gnats and all the play on words.
Amber,
I love how physical this is—“push, push, push” puts me right in your body, working against the wind. And then that sharp turn—“the peace is cracked”—oof. Words really can splinter like that. The ending feels like a release, like you’re choosing what to carry forward.
Sarah
Amber I feel the resistance of the pedaling, gaining ground and making way. And I realize that while this is about a bike ride, it is also so much more than a bike ride – – so many applicable and relevant scenarios, and each time I reread it I see something new. Intriguing, creative, and you really hit it home in that haiku!
Oh, Amber, I loved going on the bike ride with you–the wind, the wind, the wind. I love the haiku, how it is a metaphor for something more. Beautiful.
Ann,
Thank you for a new-to-me form. As often happens when I write with our community here, this was just the form and prompt I needed today. Your explanation of organizing and distilling was so helpful. I wish I was still teaching so I could use it with my students. I think I’ll use it on one of my poetry and birding walks that I lead. Thank you!
I’m glad that your voice knew to speak up for you
Your haiku is so tender.
Thank you for the prompt, thoughtful process instructions, new form and focus on peace. I’m grateful for all of that.
————————————————————————————
Rude Morning
After I text my cousins, I take my patient dog who’s becoming less patient the longer it takes me to finish texting and get ready out for our morning walk. I look for beauty as is my habit. Today I see rudeness. At least three people have failed to clean up after their dogs. I step into someone else’s mess and struggle to scrape it off. It sticks to the indented bottom of my hiking shoes. A young couple is fighting. Taking turns raising their voices, gesturing with stiff arms, one turns away from the other. The sky is gray. The buildings are covered in fog. Men and women, who society, which I am a part of, has failed to house and care for, are sleeping on concrete and cardboard. A new banner for the library is torn and falling down. There are beer cans on the sidewalk. Obscenities on the wall that the city workers will have to paint over once again. Trash in the creek. My dog is pulling on the leash into the poison ivy. I’m thinking of my Aunt Mary who started hospice this weekend after months in the hospital. I’m thinking of my cousins and aunts and uncles. I’m thinking of when we were with my mother in hospice almost a year and a half ago. I’m sad. I wish I were I were there, not far away trying to get a sense of how everyone is doing through fragmented texts. But I know enough from my own experience with my Mom. I keep walking. Keep looking for beauty. I stop to take a photo of some wildflowers. I’ll text it to my cousins later. I find a stick to clean off my shoes with. At the end of our walk, I feel the gentlest of rain.
rude mornings still yield
gentle blessings if we know
how to wait and watch
——————————————————————
Photos from my morning walk along with my poem at Pedaling Poet.
Sharon,
I appreciate all the big ideas and the details that you point out from your morning walk. It is easy to feel fragmented amidst all of life’s stuff.. family, rudeness, health challenges, annoyances etc. I am awed by how you offer a balance of poetic prose and a haibun. You have a delicate approach filled with imagery, patience, and love.
Sharon, the blessings of rain may be some of the greatest of all for the planet, but they remind us angels have tears, too…..and I think the heavens may have had some sadness for this world today. It’s great to be one who knows how to wait and watch. I love your haibun!
Sharon, I’m happy you found your point of transition. Walks can be that way. Help us walk through what’s going on in our heads. Glad you found gentle blessings through waiting and watching. Sometimes it’s all we can do.
Beautiful! Yes, keep looking up!
Sharon, your haibun and wildflower pictures have elevated your Rude Walk into to wisdom and poetry, honest, beautiful poetry. Thank you!
Your writing shows wisdom. I just read an article in the LA Times about this kind of neglect in the city. Sometimes ugliness abounds and you survive by finding the beauty and blessings. Thanks for your words.
That haiku at the end . . . so wise, so beautiful.
So many challenges covered by the gray sky. I appreciate you bringing them to attention but still offering hope in the end. Beautiful.
Sharon, I had a gray, dark-gray yesterday while the weather was nice, just partly-cloudy. Things that weigh on you may make a regular morning “rude ” Your poem makes me think about how our inner peace affects our outer surrounding perceptions. I am sorry about your Aunt Mary and sending kind thoughts your way. Keep noticing “gentle blessings;” they help us see hope. Thank you for your story!
Thank you, Leilya. I appreciate your kind words and thoughts for my aunt. My grief was definitely affecting my perceptions. Walking and writing both helped as did some time at my old school and a t’ai chi class.
Oh, Sharon, wow. So much “rudeness”, which is a great collective word for all the encounters you had with the world this morning. I love how you still kept looking and found beauty. Your haiku is a perfect “distillation,” as Ann called it, of the prose. Beautiful. Now I’m off to look at your photo.
My cousin Dianne and I were both extremely near-sighted. In the 60’s, when we were painfully thirteen, “Boys didn’t make passes at girls who wore glasses.” We went for a walk (sans glasses, of course) and spotted a boy at the end of the block. We prepared. Aiming for casual, we made sure our hair was in place, that our skirts displayed the appropriate amount of leg, and that our saunters were sauntering. As we approached our target, we conversed energetically so he wouldn’t think we noticed him.
We needn’t have worried. As we neared the critical corner, it became apparent that “he” was a street sign.
When looking for love,
remain clear-sighted. Things look
different up close.
GJ Sands
4-13-26
Anne–thank you for this prompt and your quiet, lovely poem!
Haha, Gayle, this is so fun and playful. It is easy to look back with humor at our 13-year-old selves. But I suppose you and Dianne were able to find the humor even in this scene even at 13! A story well told, and this form was a good one to use for this story.
We laughed that day. And we laughed about it for many years!
Gayle,
I could feel that you were setting us up for a punchline. I thought maybe the boy would be an annoying brother or cousin. Did not see the street sign coming. Ha. Love the combination of a funny story and advice that stands the test of time.
Gayle,
The prose and haibun is playful and on-point. Smiling with delight after reading your encounter as a 13 year old. A good reminder about what to do when in love:)
Gayle, this is gold. Pure gold. I’m chuckling – – please, please put this scene in your YA novel…..I, too, wear glasses and notice the closer I get, the more off I was. I adore your humor here.
Gayle ~ this made me literally laugh out loud. Not just once but again when I read it over. I could just see those 13 year old saunters sauntering in their rolled skirts, Your haiku reeks with wisdom…a delightful read!
This is hilarious, Gayle! The first part of your writing had me remembering when my girlfriend would I flip our hair around to get attention. We were twenty and wore glasses. Your ending “cracked me up” with surprise and laughter.
So, so funny!
Love this! I could tell that you were leading to something humorous, but it ended up being so much more humorous than expected. And your haiku is perfect. This also made me recall an event earlier this week with a very nearsighted friend who had removed her contacts and had to hold some money on her nose to be able to see it–I laughed so hard that night, and now I’m laughing again and need to send her your poem.
That could have been me! 🤣 Thanks for the chuckle.
Oh my. heavens, Gayle, you made me laugh out loud. I was just really serious after reading a poem on the website here…and still thinking about that serious topic as I read your opening. Then, I just laughed out loud at the “street sign.” Oh my gosh. How hilarious. Save this one… it’s a doozie. Love it! Susie
Gayle, I decided to read one more poem and this was it. I am SO glad to read your wonderful description that tells of a chapter of my life as well. You message, so much deeper than your story, is profound and a life-lesson for us all.
Ann, of course your peace plant had to be brought home with you! You conveyed that perfectly. The “beautiful but unwieldy remembrance” and “In a universe on fire, it suddenly seemed I needed the Peace Plant more than anything.” so beautiful, and I love the “green winged messenger”.
________
In 2026, We the People are being led in extraordinary and wonderful ways. Our good Bad Bunny expands our provincial understanding of “America” and humanity. Stephen Colbert’s grace-filled and biting jokes cannot be silenced and will have a new chapter. The crew of Artemis II smiles and keeps silent vigil in the face of blathering hubris. Pope Leo stands tall and humbly against war and evil. And the people of Hungary, in their bellwether election, speak up for democracy. In 2026, We the People choose hope and resilience.
May we stand firm on
the right side of history
We the People speak
Thank you so much, Denise, for all of these beautiful examples.
“good Bad Bunny” made me smile.
I’m comforted by how long and strong this list is!
Here’s to unity, hope, humility, persistence, democracy, and poetry.
Oh Denise, I love how captured this moment in time with so much conviction and confidence. I too had similar topics and concerns this morning… Thank you for your poetic brilliance and creativity. It is much needed.
Your haibun cheers me Denise, It does seem as though there has been a shift towards justice and hope. May we stand firm!
The Founding Fathers and unknown mothers and I agree! We must “stand firm”, keep doing what we can.
Oh, how I love this focus on good news! And there truly does seem to be a swelling, a rising, of hope, even amidst the ever-increasing insanity. The line that really sticks out to me is “The crew of Artemis II smiles and keeps silent vigil in the face of blathering hubris.” What powerful integrity they showed and continue to show. They made us all look up together, rather than looking at and pointing at each other in anger. Love it!
Denise,
Bravo! Yes, “We the people speak” and I love the voices of all you name. The tone here is perfect and hopeful in the face of the would-be god-king. Also, this is a superb example of what a haibun is and should be: a tightly structured concise paragraph of 90-150 words punctuated by a haiku. Well done.
Denise, what a magnificent declaration of people moving in the right direction and standing up against the bully and bullies who want to silence everyone. I adore the final line of your passage: In 2026, We the People choose hope and resilience. I also loved the Artemis II part, and the “blathering hubris” is a perfect descriptor.
Thank you, Denise. I needed to be reminded of good things today.
Denise, I love your positive outlook on our present! News from Hungary are certainly a win for democracy. The crew of Artemis II is our pride. Hopefully, “We, the People” will stay center stage in the future. Thank you for finding hope today!
Denise, gorgeous! So much happened today in response to the blasphemous post that I saw people standing firm and speaking out. Slowly but surely, we are witnessing the power of change when we the people stand together.
Ahh, Denise! YES YES YES! I have to keep remembering that good things are happening. I loved Bad Bunny (I’ve been studying español) at the Super Bowl. Have loved Colbert for years… you have captured just what I needed to think about tonight. Thank you. Susie
Denise, Your repetition of We the People is a powerful reminder that our voices (still) matter. Our politicians (all) had better wake up. Here is to a peace movement, now.
Ann, thank you for sharing this new-to-me poetic format. I am glad you took the Peace Plant. I am, unfortunately and unintentionally, a plant murderer.
The Angel of Death needs to back off. I knew the older I got, the greater the chance that I would experience the death of family and friends, but this is too much. Since August 30, 2025 – Julie (77), Chuck (69), Chip (84), Bill (90), Regina (72), Suzanne (66), family, friends, funerals. Quick and shocking, only one was sick for more than a month – the only one with a previous diagnosis. Three were dead in less than 24 hours. Two were of sudden, swift onset. I have no more room for grief; that is reserved for Chuck. Yet each of these deaths compounds my grief, resurrecting the trauma of losing Chuck. My body can hold no more sadness; I cannot apportion my tears.
Six in seven months
Family, friends gone too soon
Don’t let life slip by
Rita, I’m so sorry – – this all seems so overwhelming. Your last line is a daily reminder that we should all live life so that it isn’t slipping by. I hope your heart finds some peace, perhaps some heavenly hellos that provide reassurance that your beloved Chuck and your friends are in a much, much better place!
Rita, I’m so sorry you are dealing with such grief. Your powerful haibun and accompanying haiku offer important reminders to us all. Thank you for sharing your strength by sharing your words.
Rita, I’m so sorry for all the losses this year. The names and ages are hard to read, and so many surprising deaths are a shock to read about, but to have experienced them. Oh, my…
Your message at the end is so sure and important. “Don’t let life slip by” Than you for the reminder. Peace to you.
Oh Rita,
I feel the weight of grief and the shock of sudden loss in your words. Heartbreaking. Sending peace and love.
Rita,
This is all too much.. I am sorry for your losses. Sending you a big hug, filled with peace and care that can ease some of the grief.
Six in seven months— I am so sorry, Rita, and hope that you find peace in this community of poets as well as with your library and book club friends. Thank you for opening your heart and reminding us all to embrace life.
Don’t let life slip by. Words to heed. There’s so much to treasure in life. We need it when death breaks in. Unexpected loss is devastating. And even a loss preceded by a long illness seems sudden in its end. Hope it will be the Angel of Life visiting you more in the coming days.
Oh, Rita, your haibun is heartbreaking. You’ve truly experienced far too much loss and at such a rapid rate, is truly overwhelming. The line “Three were dead in less than 24 hours.” is particularly alarming. “Don’t let life slip by” says it all! Hugs!
So sorry for your losses, Rita! Sending kind thoughts and hugs. “Don’t let life slip by” is a wonderful reminder to all of us, whose tomorrow isn’t promised. Thank you!
The sky is the deep gray of the ash in the bottom of the firepit, soft, rolling, quiet, three dimensional. There is no wind and the ocean is a watery landscape of rolling hills of dark silver, pewter, whispers. I paddle out into water the color of sky, no horizon to help me mark the waves marching towards me. Instead, the swell is the sky undulating and then folding out, surprising me as I float over the sand bar. I turn, paddle, the lip curls over my head, shadow under shadow over silver and I am in a spinning column of light, somehow, though the sun is nowhere. And I am on my feet, the water is whispering as I pump once into the deep pit of light and water and then I am down below, the sand my bed as the waves tumbles over and I pop up into the deep, horizonless gray as if nothing happened, and the sea does not seem to care, though this moment matters.
Sky water gray light
Waves whispering from horizon
Into pits of light
Beautiful, quite the serene and lush scene you have painted. Thanks, Jonathon
Jonathan,
Your prose is so captivating. I love how the extended sentences feel like waves on the sand…ebbing in and then out, reaching and breaking. And the Haiku….gorgeous.
Oh my, Jonathon. Parts of this left me breathless, as if I were under water myself. The descriptions of water and light are magnificent.
Jonathan,
Your description had me there in the water, lost and confused, seeking the sun’s guidance.
Love the difference in what matters to the sea and what matters to you.
Wow, what exquisite details in your description of the watery landscape…the rolling hills of dark silver, pewter, whispers…I confess your next lines terrified me a bit as I have found myself in a spinning column of light and dark, fearful that I might never pop up…though of course I did and while I never again wandered further than the sandbar, you are right —the sea did not seem to care! A beautifully rendered haibun.
Jonathan, you have described a beautiful moment or so paddling on the ocean. As I followed you “when no horizon to help me mark the waves marching towards” you, your calm prose ease my concern. I was certainly glad to read you were on your feet. You describe such a beautiful time of day.
Jonathan,
This is quite a gorgeous rendering of your oceanic adventure captured with so much suspense, beauty, and light.
Jonathon,
The prose poem is so vividly descriptive and you perfectly capture the feeling of being under the waves as they tumble over you. I REALLY love the haiku though and what you do with sound and repetition in that small poetic frame.
It happens so quickly I almost miss it. A joke, light and careless, tossed into conversation like it weighs nothing. Everyone laughs. I try to. But something in me tightens, like a door I didn’t know was still locked. The words echo differently in my body than they do in the room.“An old woman is always uneasy when dry bones are mentioned in a proverb.”said Achebe in Things Fall Apart. The line settles in me because it is true. Suddenly I am younger—not in years, but in feeling—back in moments where laughter wasn’t safe, where tone could shift without warning, where I learned to read silence more carefully than words.
Later, I tell my husband. He listens in that steady way of his, trying to pull me back into now—into warmth, into something lighter. He makes a joke, softer this time, gentler, trying to show me that this moment is different. I want to follow him there. I really do.
But fear doesn’t always loosen its grip so easily.Without wanting it, I am crying—not because of now, but because of then. Because something small opened something old. Because part of me is still stuck into what used to come next.
He holds the moment steady while I come apart in it. He reassures me, I am different and we are building something new together. I breathe. I remind myself: this is not that. I am not there anymore. And still, I honour the girl who learned to survive those moments, who carried them quietly into this life I am still learning to fully trust.
laughter turns to tears
his voice pulls me to the now—
my past lingers near
I have had my moments when a joke has brought up past hurt–a wound I didn’t know was still open. You beautifully expressed your feelings and candidly shared your fears. One of the strengths mentioned in your writing is that you “honour the girl who learned to survive.” That is a victory. Thank you for sharing your heart.
I’m so sorry that pain from the past reared its ugly head. Your poem resonates. Sometimes painful memories come unbidden. You capture those moments perfectly.
Kratijah,
You have written this so beautifully. The overlapping of the present with the past and its pain and emotions.
I love this so much:
Thank you.
Kratijah, I call these moments hauntings…and you are right— fear doesn’t always loosen its grip so easily. What give me hope as you learn to fully trust is that you honor the girl who learned to survive and that is beautiful.
Thank you for sharing your words.
So vulnerable and moving, Kratijah. You are brave to share this much of a deeply personal mindset to a group of internet strangers. The thing is, we are not strangers, but a safe room to share all of this and more. Complexities that we don’t all fully know, but for those who share similar experiences, this has got to be even more cutting. Thank you for your contribution today. It is outstanding!
Kratijah, your haibun perfectly wraps your prose up. I lingered on this line: “Because something small opened something old.” That’s worded so well. I’m glad to read how your husband responds to you. Thank you for sharing your truth ❤️
Oh wow. I was left feeling a hushed silence. This is very powerful and yet so soft and vulnerable. The damage is so long-lasting. What a blessing to have a now that is not like then. God bless you and the life you live NOW.
On my daily walks, my mind wanders up snow peaked mountains and through forests of ombre green. Vibrant blue blankets the sky and sends my heart soaring. Light filters through fluffy clouds and warms my face with sunray’s kiss. The crisp scent of spring fills my lungs with gratitude. A choir of Song Sparrows and American Robins sweetly harmonize; their melodies ride the wind. Nature takes a bow.
Peaceful walks fill my
soul as nature puts on a
show and takes a bow.
Melissa, your words paint a picture of your walks and certainly generates peace for all who are fortunate enough to read your words.
I love the whole scene but I particularly love the last line of the prose…”Nature takes a bow.” Perfect
I love the idea of nature taking a bow! Thank you for sharing this glorious walk with us. I applaud not only the beauty of nature but the words you chose to describe it!
Melissa,
I am right there with you as you walk and paint this surreal spring scene. It is so pretty and rhythmic with a dash of gratitude & meditation. Thank you!
Melissa, this type of peace is felt deep in the core, and I can see Nature taking a bow – – that’s a beautiful image, and one I seek more frequently the older I get. The choir of birds in praisesong remind us that his eye is on the sparrow……and us too.
their melodies ride the wind…how lovey, Melissa, not just the vibrant blue blankets and fluffy cloud, the sparrows and robins, but that you noticed!
You have gifted us a peaceful moment. And a smile- nature takes a bow.
What a sweet journey through snow peaked mountains and the ombré green of the forest. I can envision your peaceful walk in nature. This poem took me along with you. Thank you.
I, your prompt and poem are both timely and profound. Your depiction of that unwanted flower is one we can all hold in our hearts. I have also been preoccupied by the dream of a kinder world in my own family and in our nation. Both situations have left me angry and distraught. I tried to write earlier about the leader of the free world’s words this morning; however, my anger is too close to rage. Instead, this is about my family a subject that is still raw, and until today, one I have never written about or shared publicly. Sadly, in its’ small way, it mirrors the bigger stage of worldwide disagreements. Somehow, you have reached into my heart and pulled out words I have wanted to share for a while. I just wish I knew what to do to make things better?
“It was sad he did not even come to her Dad’s funeral,” she sighed as we caught up on a mutual acquaintance whose family had divided over some difference of opinion about who knows what. I think I nodded in agreement, but her words still ricochet through my mind weeks later as I think about the permanent virulence that invaded my small family after accusations led to anger. My grandfather watched my wedding from afar. I tear up thinking about greatly loved nieces and nephews whose once tiny hands I held in mine; yet, I have not seen them in 30 years because of harsh words. Then, the dam opens as I think of the inability to say, “I am sorry,” or “I didn’t handle that well,” within what remains of my own imperfect family. Yes, Ann, I share your preoccupied with the possibility of peace and healing and my own inability, so far, to create a kinder, healed world for even those closest to me.
Words hurt, mend, matter,
Time does not soften anger,
Be a peacemaker.
Anita, “time does not soften anger” is profound, especially when paired with the observation of the power of words and the admonition to seek peace. Great reminders in a time when everyone seems angry about something.
I will be making amends today.
“…some difference of opinion about who knows what…” The wisdom in this line captures the truth that small disagreements somehow morph into huge problems with long-reaching effects. Thank you for sharing your story through this haibun. Why must “I am sorry” be so difficult to say?
Anita, your middle line there harbors such truth. Many times, it’s that proverbial straw that breaks the camel’s back, and the irreconcilable differences just build layers of time. I have seen it so much in families, and it would be great if we could all live in a kinder world. You give us a reminder today that life is short.
Oh Anita, it’s hard to be a peacemaker. I often think of Mrs, Cratchit when her husband asks her to offer a toast to Scrooge the founder of the feast~ the founder of the feast indeed she says and proceeds to go on a rant against the selfishness of Scrooge. Clearly, sometimes it’s hard to get over our anger, especially with those closest to us. I’m glad you were able to find the words to express the feelings which ricochet in your mind. Words do matter and time does not always soften anger; your reminder to be a peacemaker is a message to all of us.
Anita,
Thank you for sharing your pain and your wisdom with us.
Words hurt, mend, matter,
Time does not soften anger,
Be a peacemaker.
Simple, clear message. Difficult to do.
Anita,
Only if we could enact your haibun and become a “peacemaker”. So hard to practice sometimes or especially with the closest of family members. You’ve really captured a profound conflict and I like the idea of softening anger. Even though time is not always our friend. Thank you for sharing.
Anita, I feel every ounce of grief created by the harsh words and failure to mend the hurt here. Losing the opportunity to be with nieces and nephews is an incredible loss. We need a kinder, healed world more than ever and those words show the magnitude of the rift and pain that can be created by intentional harm and cruel actions. I love that your haiku ends with “Be a peacemaker”. Poignant and deeply moving haibun. Thank you!
Anita, I know this sadness well. Families can be so hard…oh yes, “the inability to say I’m sorry or “I didn’t handle that well”…truth. I think of this and the loss of relationships often…as far as the inability to heal “those closest to me”: I would have healed my mother’s destructiveness and addiction if I were able, would have worked on repairing our relationship, but she was too far gone. People get to a point where they cling to the brokenness; it’s the familiar. It begins to feel safer. I think of the famous question Jesus asked the paralyzed man at the pool of Bethesda: “Do you want to be healed?” I hold this question deeply – for everyone does not want to be healed; it means change. The thing we fear most next to loss is change. I so agree that as much as it is possible, we should be peacemakers. When not possible…the only peace we can make is within ourselves. We can’t do it for anyone else, just as we can’t change anyone else…and yeah, it means from time to time, the dam will open. But therein lies healing, too. I applaud your courage in sharing – I take comfort in your words; there will be others who find healing in them. Take heart <3
Thank you for your message that really speaks to my heart. I am very grateful for this community of peacemakers!
Anita, thank you so much for sharing this difficult story. Your vulnerability comes through. I regret to have to say I can relate. I’ll be going to a great-nephew’s wedding this summer, and my sister, his grandmother will not be there. It breaks my heart, and I’m sure his too. “Be a peacemaker.” is direct and excellent advice.
SFX Through the Ages
Saturday night was the yearly auction raising money for the school. Classes have made quilts with students’ handprints. Teachers auction off experiences. A baker from the parish auction off a year supply of delicious pies. A farming family donate half – side of beef to auction off. A teacher who had taught for 30 years made scrapbooks. They too were on tables, aides for walking down memory lane. T-shirts signed by long ago students who designed them hung on makeshift clothesline. The school’s population is less than half since I taught there in the early 2000s. But the new principal is a parishioner, who had gone there as a child, whose great grandparents were founding members. With prayers and hard work, SFX will be revived.
Covid was not kind
Families moved on. But wait
Trust in Faith, Hope, Love.
THIS is a piece about hope and perseverance! Your story, familiar and sad, is one told around the nation these days and I was nodding in agreement even if I was saddened until your powerful transition, “but WAIT.” which really is the hope and kindness your poem is projecting overall. I think this sounds like a GREAT fundraiser and I would be likely to invest in one of those tee shirts just because I care!
Cayetana, what a lovely tribute to a school suffering hard times as so many schools are now suffering, What good people to continue to do their best to support and try to save. Your haiku clinches it…but wait…thank you for reminding us to trust in faith, hope and love.
Cayetana,
I love hearing of the acts of kindness and community here.
So many emotions in your haiku.
Faith, hope, love… we can trust in these.
Cayetana, I like your hopeful attitude. Six of my best teaching years were at a dear Catholic school in NW Iowa. We had an annual gala that was so much fun, and the auctioned items were thoughtful and creative donations like you detail so well here in your paragraph. I love the “But wait / Trust in Faith, Hope, Love” Beautiful!
Cayetana,
There’s something so tender here in the quilts, the scrapbooks, all those years stitched together. “Walking down memory lane” feels real, not cliché. And that turn—But wait—it lifts. You can feel the care holding this place up, refusing to let it fade.
Peace,
Sarah
Today I cannot follow the prompt. Today my heart is heavy, sinking, drowning. I must give credence to the emotion. And let my soul surrender to grief.
Succumbing to the Grief
Some kinds of soul searching produce
grief before healing,
hurt before happiness,
reflection before surrender.
As I bob and tread
and desperately try to keep my head
above the engulfing current
I realize that the grief
is overwhelming,
all consuming.
I cannot be saved
until I surrender.
I have to face the pain,
feel it,
drown in it.
So it will wash away.
I allow myself to be engulfed,
the feelings
flooding my entire being,
enveloping all that is reality.
Going down,
no longer bobbing,
no longer fighting,
succumbing to the completeness of it all.
Grief….
a vital part of my personhood.
Surrender feels like death,
like failure,
like there’s never again to be hope.
Only in surrender
do I find peace,
and quiet strength.
The desire to go on.
the resolve that takes.
the strength is breathes.
-Carrie Horn
Carrie, I’m sorry for your grief; I’m glad you found a space here to write what you needed to write in order to find, hopefully, some peace.
Carrie, I too am very sorry for your all consuming grief. I hope and pray that in your surrender you find the strength and power to go forward one tiny step at a time. You are in my thoughts and prayers.
I’m so sorry, Carrie, for your pain and grief. Thank you for your bravery in sharing this. It is beautifully written.
Carrie, it akes courage to dive into the pain of grief ~ thank you for sharing this. I am sorry to hear of your grief but hope your surrender leaves you with the peace you are seeking. What feels like failure is often the shutting out of other voices to hear your own. I’m glad you honored your feelings today.
Carrie, peace to you in this “overwhelming / all consuming” chapter. Thank you for your vulnerability and for sharing. I do hope the acknowledgement and succumbing (you chose a great and difficult title) will help you find the “peace and quiet strength” to go on. Hugs and prayers.
Ann, Now that I’m of the age of the persons described in my first novel, ON ZION’S HILL, this excerpt takes on a new meaning. I added my birth date and that of my husband’s to randomly select a page from the book that describes the summer we met at church camp.
Here’s the excerpt:
“Surely there’ll be a little screeching in the soprano sections because the choir directors never make the older ladies stop singing just because they have difficulty reaching or holding the notes.
In fact, this is one of the things Angie likes about camp meeting. Everyone is welcome to participate wherever he or she thinks is a good place to serve. She can’t keep from smiling when things do not always go as smoothly as they could have if only those who were perfect were on stage or in the choir. Oh well. Let them “Make a joyful noise…” By the end of the week, the sounds will be more harmonious and in sync. But this is the first night, and the singing is certain to be somewhat ragged, but authentically passionate, nonetheless.” (from ON ZION’S HILL (2016)
Here’s my almost Haibun.
All ages welcome
Even though they’re off-key
That’s where I want to be
Just beautiful Anna. Off key that’s where I want to be carries a hint of revolutionary vision, I think. Thought provoking at the very least!
Anna, your words, all, are a token to kindness and respect for those of us who still have a “voice” even if time has taken a toll. Well done
Oh I really enjoy the haiku here. It carries some joy and lightness and makes me smile.
Such a clever idea looking up pages in a book you wrote for the prose. That would be a fun idea to do with my students–have them find writing that speaks to them and then have them write a haiku about it. Thank you for sharing!
This is lovely Anna ~ I think it was St. Augustine (and my mother) who said, he who sings prays twice…and that is what this excerpt reminds me of…all ages welcome…how glorious is that? Thanks for sharing!
Verselove Day 13: Moments of Clarity/Haibun
A Haibun for my Period:
My period started when I was tenl. I never embraced it with joy. I only ever considered it an inconvenience at best, a vile punishment, a curse vexed upon me by an angry god? After A and M were born, I prayed for menopause, no such luck.
As an adult, if I found myself without a pad, in the midst of my own personal crime scene, my mom would ask, “You haven’t gone through the change yet?!?”
It must have felt like a lifetime of menstruation to her, too. She was there when I was ten, screaming bloody murder in a very public restroom. She, I, and my two-year-old sister, all corralled in a tiny stall, baffled at what had appeared in my underwear.
Maybe if we had been one of those, “Celebrate Womanhood” families, my mom might’ve taken me for celebratory cake and ice cream. She might’ve taken me to pick out a beaded pouch for my pads, that I would’ve treasured on into my adulthood and would not have had to deal with, “Damn it, not again!” days when I would only find brown Hardee’s napkins in the bottom of my school bag, and not a pad in sight.
I somehow went through life from ten forward thinking, “Meh, maybe it just won’t happen this month.” When my period has likely been the most consistent presence in my life. I spent entirely too much of our relationship together traumatized with shame associated with something that most clearly represented my innate ability to. create life. I have seven days left with my uterus, and today, I celebrate her and the miracles she held within me.
A Haiku for my female students:
Miss, I need a pad.
Top shelf. 3 kinds. Help yourself.
No shame. Wear with pride.
Tracei Willis
April 13, 2026
I love how honestly you write about your period. I was taught to never even say the word. I have been happily without for years and was recently shocked when I saw a tampon in a public toilet. How could I forget so quickly what it was like? When I had my hysterectomy I took part in a sound bath and the leader put a singing bowl on my belly. I wept for the loss. I was surprised by that feeling.
Thank you for your response, I have been working on accepting my unexpected upcoming loss since March 4th. I’m worried about feeling empty without it, but hopefully that feeling won’t last long.
Tracie, your prose and poetry capture so vividly an issue most middle school teachers had to prepare for themselves at that age, and for so many of our students who reached that “period” during the period we were teaching them.
Are you familiar with Scholastic’s publication FREE PERIOD? It may be one to have in yur classroom even if you choose not to teach it as a whole class book.
Thank you for your response, and no, I have not heard of Free Period, but I will look it up.
Tracei, this is a post that deserves posting in every girl’s room in every school as it is honest, real, and not always welcomed when it arrives regularly for most of our lives! I felt sad (and hot) after my unexpected hysterectomy in my early 40s even though I had thought I was ok if it needed to happen! It is a strange part of being female!
Love love love. I am a public school teacher for years, my classroom with the only place on campus where kids could get period supplies. We have a menstruation station, no hiding, no shame. I love that aspect of your poem especially
Tracei, Just when I think we are forever stuck in the dark ages, I read the haibun for your period and your hair for your female students and I think, we have made strides…girls get their periods without fear or shame and that is something to celebrate.
Tracei, I loved this. I, too, started my menstrual cycle very early. I think I was 11. I remember going to the school nurse and telling her my stomach hurt. It was the early 80s; and back then, school nurses could give some medication. She gave me Pepto Bismol! True story! For years, I thought that was what you were supposed to take for period cramps. Oh my! If only I had had a teacher like you!
Oh! Your haiku almost made me cry. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. “Traumatized with shame associated with something that most clearly represented my innate ability to create life” – how many of us have felt this?? And have been so embarrassed by not having a pad. Thank you for being that teacher!!
Tracei — Oh boy, this resonates with me in a big way. The honesty of this is powerful… it is not an easy road to hoe, being a woman. I once counted the days and percentages of my life that were bamboozled by a period that lasted 7 full bleed-to-death days every month… 25% of my adult life was miserable because of the ensuing mess that was menstruation. I needed a teacher like you with a “No shame” shelf. I really appreciate this poem… a ton. Thank you. Susie
Tracei,
Love this! Both your story and your haiku. Students at my school created a Period Club a few years ago. They did an amazing job ensuring that menstrual products were free and available in all of our school bathrooms and in our community. I loved when the high schoolers from the Period Club would come and talk to my seventh graders, educating, destigmatizing, and answering their questions.
Wishing you a quick recovery.
Apologies if this is a re-post. My first post seems to have disappeared when I tried to edit. Thank you, Ann, for teaching me about a Peace Plant and for that last line, which put me in the mind of blessing, of Gerard Manley Hopkins, and of the Sanctus. As always, I post my work here. Today’s offering is …
Heaven & earth are full of your glory
That rarest of things — a sunny Texas afternoon without mosquitos. The vegetable garden gently, almost imperceptibly, swelling, taking up every inch of the rough-hewn low wooden walls, like a child sitting up in her pajamas, stretching, greeting the day on her own terms, at her leisure. Sage & crepe myrtle poke through the wide curtain of this emerald world, surprise pin pricks, a visual Morse code signaling the opposite of SOS: We are saved, we live still, we’ll be fine. Pollen-frosted cars, minnows darting along the creek bed, and countless nameless spores float and twirl, coast and rest underfoot, tangling, nestling in the thick grass. And the sky. The sky today a near parody of brightness & calm, for a moment, empty of birds, of clouds, and as far as you can see, even empty of some residual gaseous trail of people busy to be somewhere else. Heaven cannot be gated on a day like today.
An awakening
foretold of strength and purpose —
Be brave where you are
Heaven cannot be gated on a day like today… we are blessed with glimpses of heaven in the beauty of earth and you gave us word pictures of so many. Recently, as I read Theo of Golden, I was taken with Allen Levi’s description of Georgia’s pollen as a lemon patina… pollen-frosted cars brings that familiar image to mind, too.
I love this Joel…what struck me most was the detailed beauty of garden being compared to a child sitting up in her pajamas, stretching, greeting the day… Lately it’s been difficult to recognize the beauty of humanity when there is so much inhumanity so your metaphor surprised and delighted me. I love your emerald world proclaiming we are saved… we live still…and I am grateful that heaven cannot be grated. Thank you for these lovely images!
Joel, so many good lines in your writing today – the garden sitting up, stretching like a child in pajamas (so, so lovely), heaven cannot be gated on a day like today (if only!), be brave where you are (my mantra henceforth – thank you for that!).
Comparing the vegetable garden to a “child…stretching, greeting the day on. her own terms…” How refreshing! I love that image!
Loved the heaven line, but also “even empty of some residual gaseous trail of people busy to be somewhere else”… We get those clear skies, too and it is beautiful…I’m tucking “Be brave where you are” away for days I need it. I can almost smell the emerald world.
Joel, you hooked my in your garden – The vegetable garden gently, almost imperceptibly, swelling, taking up every inch of the rough-hewn low wooden walls, like a child sitting up in her pajamas, stretching, greeting the day on her own terms, at her leisure. Your simile of the child sitting up in her pajamas brought a smile to my lips. Where I am in Texas, we’ve had enough rain to was the pollen on the cars away. Love your final line – Heaven cannot be gated on a day like today.
Thank you so much for your encouragement & kind words! I’m in Dallas. Where are you? Oh, and I wrote a very Texan thing earlier this month 🤠 ✌🏼
Ann,
I applaud you for offering inspiration, sensibility, and a desire to cultivate a more just world. The writing you offered through prose and haiku truly distills warmth and peace. I love how you chose the peace plant and found a place for her. Thank you.
I too wanted to write about a plant but found myself elsewhere…
Blasphemy
A news reel captures the leader of the world picking and blaming Pope Leo. Calling him, “weak on crime” … “If I wasn’t in the White House, Leo wouldn’t be in the Vatican.” Really? He goes on to create an AI-generated image depicting himself dressed in a white and red robe with light shining out of his hands. Touching a man on the forehead and appearing to be healing him. Really? The continuous blame and attacks need to come to a halt. The condemnation of the war needs to be vociferous. The arrogance, the pitfalls, the lies, and the abundance of absurdities…the inhumane violence needs to be denounced.
When will it all stop?
God-like depictions
Blaming, trolling, and deceiving
There’s a better way
Darshna, I’m over all of this nonsense, too….you are so right. The blaming needs to stop, and the leader needs to be a leader, not a fit-pitcher with delusional tendencies to believe he can save himself, the world, or anyone else. I love that you went down this path and brought it down to the last line of your poem: indeed, there is a better way.
EVERYDAY it seems there is more ridiculousness coming from the “leader of the free world” so , so sureal and discouraging. Nice haiku to summarize it.
Yes, there’s a better way. As Pope Leo also said…”promote peace…dialogue…just solutions… Someone has to stand up…”
We are someone.
Darshna, the cruelty of this world, the blaming, trolling and deceiving boggles my mind and I am grateful to you for calling it out, for recognizing that there is a better way. Sometimes it feels like we are screaming into a void, but your words remind me that more voices mean louder voices and louder voices will eventually be heard. Thank you!
Darshna, this is the post I tried to write this morning, yet the rage I was feeling made my words and thoughts unclear as well as unkind! You are honest and clear. Your words matter and there has to be a better way. THANK YOU for writing this.
Darsha, I’m right (write) there with you! We need to stop calling him the leader of the free world – he’s no leader and he’s further limiting our freedoms every day. Your haiku reads like discernment–the first line where we’ve been, the second where we are, and the third where we need to be!
I could not agree with you more! Powerful prose and poem. You should add to this and send it to your representatives.
Darshna, I feel every bit of the anger expressed in your haibun today. I am continually appalled, angered and dismayed by the ridiculous comments I read in the news and hear recorded. It’s too much! I agree with the last line of your haiku, “There’s a better way”. I’m completely scared to death that we will not recover from the horror inflicted by these attacks. Powerful haibun!
Your words lit up this space today. Darshna! How much longer will we tolerate this “Bad Bunny,” as Denise called him? I can’t think about this narcissistic wanna-be-king as “the leader of the free world.” You are right, all this has to stop. I appreciate you speaking the truth.
Oh, Darshna, amen and amen! Thank you for thinking it, for writing it, for showing us “a better way.” We need a regime change pronto!
Thank you for this prompt today, Ann, and for bringing up this form. I think I missed it last year, so it is a fun one to play with today.
Monday morning, and we are odds again because I can never find peace in those two days everyone says should refresh, recharge, renew. Each day (even those two) start with a bark, a “Mommy!”, a gentle touch I cannot reciprocate because of the barking, because the calling, because I cannot quiet the single, spiraling thought in my head that me, alone, is not enough.
Peace is hard to come by, to recognize, to catch in these blurring moments.
If I take a breath to focus on this forest of mine, I can catch it so briefly. In the way my eight-year-old folds herself into my lap for the rare hug, in the small-voiced thank you for an outing I already deemed failure, or in an “I love you” to remind us we aren’t just passing shapes.
Hard seasons bring the
Potential for buds to bloom,
For all to have enough.
Thanks, Jordan, for showing us that this is a season of potential. You’ve given such a gift, such an arc to your readers out here — to move from being at odds again to a reminder that “we aren’t just passing shapes”. love the movement & the promise of this. Thank you!
Jordan, sometimes snuggles and a whispered, “I love you,” is enough to move us forward for through each season–long or short. Thank you for sharing today.
Jordan, thanks for your honesty this morning…peace isn’t always easy to come by, especially when we expect it on demand because of those two days that are set aside for renewal. I’m glad for the brief moments you have to catch it and I feel the need to remind you that buds bloom without our actually noticing the opening of their hearts.
Jordan,
This one really stays with me—the honesty of “me, alone, is not enough” alongside those small, saving moments. the lap hug, the quiet thank you… that’s the peace, even if it flickers. and that ending—such a gentle, hard-earned kind of hope.
Sarah
Thank you for hosting today, Ann. Haibun is new to me, but wow, your peace lily offering today helped me nail my own melancholy.
While death touches everyone at some point, we all think or hope it isn’t going to stop for our clan. At the very least, we think we will be the first summoned rudely away to not have to deal with the massive hole in the universe feelings. Even as we acknowledge our condolences to others, we secretly think, not my spouse, not my parents, not my children.
But then the shadowy spector shows up.
In my yesterdays
They were always together.
Now she sits alone.
Jeania,
The haiku here is a gut punch. Being so far away, it’s hard for me to comprehend how much grief Aunt Sherry is feeling, and you, too. I’ll do better keeping in touch w/ her. For me there’s contradiction in the line “we secretly think, not my spouse, not my parents, not my children.” since I was so young when death came for dad. Sending you lots of love.
Thank you. We are doing well, really. Writing is so cathartic for me, I was actually excited about Verselove and even though I haven’t posted daily, I have written almost daily. Thanks for suggesting this community to me!
Jeania, this form works well with this topic and your words. Your phrase, “…stop for our clan,” is something I think we all can relate to–both consciously and subconsciously. Thank you for sharing today.
Jeania, the entrance of your shadowy specter gave me goose bumps.It’s true, all of it. It’s hard to deal with the inevitable hole in the universe and your haiku captures the painful isolation death brings. A searing reminder,
Jeania, I sense your loss and offer a hand on your shoulder in unity of the grief and sadness. That shadowy spector is most often unwelcome…..and occasionally, such a relief to see the end of suffering in those who have fought and are tired. And yet the grief continues on for those loved ones left alone…..and I see the solitary figure here. Your poem is a reminder that none of us gets out of this life alive.
Jeanie, this is raw and stops me in my tracks as I think of my mother who could not bear t continue on this earth without her partner. You have captured our universal worries as well as the face of grief in one poem.
Now she sits alone.
So much is contained in those words. We don’t want them to be true. But the shadowy spector doesn’t stay in the shadows.
Jeania, so glad you are here and posting today. That haiku says so very much, with the sad last line. I can understand how we secretly (without thinking) think “not my…” Yikes. So sad and so well put. I’m sorry you and your mom are going through this.
Oh, Jeania. That quiet truth in how we all think “not mine” lands so hard for me today, and then “now she sits alone”… it’s so simple, so devastating. You let the loss speak without forcing it, and that makes it linger. And “shadowy spector”– wow.
Peace,
Sarah
I get it, I’m aging, I’m getting older, but does that mean I need to see less clearly, take in the world – my surroundings near and far – less vividly, less distinctly, yes, my body would seem to say, you don’t need to see things more crisply, your perceptions can afford to be dulled, just a bit more each and every year, and so it goes, this inevitable decline, this sloping toward darkness, and if Tennyson’s Ulysseus is to be believed since we are “part of all that [we] have seen,” oh, boy, I am losing connections by the day, so to combat this I now wear “transition” glasses (because saying bifocals isn’t cool anymore?) and they’re fine, I guess, but I have to flex different neck muscles than I had to before, and I know, I get it, I just need to get used to them and this is such a first-world problem, such a minor thing, I see that, I mean, for Christ’s sake, people I know and love are dealing with macular degeneration, and I’m, like, but I have to tilt my head now when I look at things, I know, pathetic, not great at all, I get it, but I just can’t get over the fact that – physically and philosophically – I’m now constantly looking down my nose at things.
my vision is clear
only when craning my neck,
head facing the stars
______________________________________________
Thank you, Ann, for your mentor poem and your prompt and the time and space for me to rant a little bit about this small inconvenience in my life, lol. (And, I agree, our “universe [is] on fire” and I’m glad you found “a place for” the “Peace Plant.”)
I can relate to the joys of getting older physically. But wow, your haiku is deep and powerful, Scott. awesome!
Actually, Scott, I enjoyed your rant 🙂 as it means I’m not the only one— glasses on, glasses off in perpetuity. Like you I’m aware of a world with much larger problems than my vision, but gee, this sloping towards darkness, does deserve a bit of attention…and at least the last line of your haiku makes the whole sloping thing worthwhile.
Scott,
This made me laugh and wince at the same time—“constantly looking down my nose at things” is too good. that mix of humor and real unease lands perfectly. and then the turn—head facing the stars—feels like a small, stubborn kind of grace.
Sarah
Scott — Your stream of consciousness is, as always, hilariously spot on and funny as all get out. That you bring it down (down, get that right there) to “looking down my nose at things” is just a stitch. A first-world problem… yup. But still a pain in the “eye”… neck… You’ll get used to them… I’ve been wearing transitions for decades now…wow… I got my first pair a looooong time ago. Wouldn’t have it any other way. Hugs, Susie
I like this dual form a lot. Thank you for hosting and for a great example, Ann. My attention and mental capacity won’t do this justice today, but here’s a shot anyway:
She texts me at work. The crying emoji. Not the happy one. These are tears of sorrow, not joy. I always feel bad when I don’t see it right away. I reply with the head down despair emoji. Sometimes the minutes or hours on the other end feel like eternity. “I’m so mentally exhausted” The grey skies and blistery winds howl outside the windows. Also on the inside of my lenses, the window to my soul. How to be two places at once? How to be what I need to be here and now and pack up my priorities into a tiny pocket of my backback and save it for later? The sounds, the sights, fade back into the present. The students chit chatting. The broken pencil along with it’s commrade, the spiral notebook margin scraps ripped from notebook and fallen to green carpet as snow from the heavens. “Mr. Bensing? you good?” I will be. I reply in truth. I will be. I have to be. But the timeline is fuzzy.
I pull into the driveway. Open the front door. Greeted by silence and her little cousin stillness. I find her in our room. Tear-blotched, rosy cheeks. She pulls me close. Our hug the venue for our skin, our minds, our hearts, our souls to reconnect. Scrubbing away the old adhesive and reapplying the new and improved formula on each side, pressing together. A better bond. Her lips softly yet hungrily search for mine. She pulls me in. We were made for each other. We were meant for this glorious union. All is not forgotten. All is not remedied. All is not forever perfect. Also, Rome wasn’t built in a day. But our city is built and rebuilt with love and selflessness that can only be attributed to divine intervention.
Our bodies collide
want yet guiltless, releasing
into each other
Luke, your first few lines have me thinking about how emojis/texting is its own form of modern codeswitching or translanguing. Something I’m going to think more about. I also like your use, “hug the venue…,” in your narrative. Thank you for sharing.
Luke, you have more than done justice in this compelling, poignant slice of life followed so naturally by your haiku…while emoji’s weren’t in circulation when I was younger, I feel a kinship to your sorrow and exhaustion. For me it was infertility as month by month dropped away christened by my tears. While I don’t know the source of your sorrow, you have left space in your words and heart to let others enter and care.
Luke, this is very poignant and profound. You’ve crafted such vivid details, and I love the quick interaction between you and your student: “‘Mr. Bensing? you good?’ I will be. I reply in truth. I will be. I have to be. But the timeline is fuzzy.” There is quite a bit in that small moment. “I will be. I have to be.” Yeah. Thank you for crafting and sharing this!
Luke,
I love this moment of attention, care and honesty:
Luke,
This is a collision of all the emotions from the narrative to the emojis and a softness. A painting of all the senses and sequences. Enjoyed the entire exchange of prose to haibun. Beautiful.
Mmm I love this section: “All is not forgotten. All is not remedied. All is not forever perfect. Also, Rome wasn’t built in a day. But our city is built and rebuilt with love and selflessness that can only be attributed to divine intervention.” Such a perfect way to explain long-term relationships. They carry a lot of baggage & take a lot of forgiveness & mending, over & over again. Also the emoji’s – a language we all understand!
The sky yesterday was coaxed into blue by the rays of a twelve day April sun. I had watched it pull on the horizon until the grazing hare had retreated into the brush. The Canada Geese were in the field on the shore eating and hoping to find the perfect nesting spot, despite the neighbor’s overhead shots to scare them away. All winter I’ve passed the new osprey nesting platform, erected after the demolition of their old nest to advance the power lines. Last year they’d put a few sticks on it, but found it unsuitable. Yesterday, one opsrey sat on the platform. His mate should be there any day now. It looks like they may be adding on a room afterall.
Sir Osprey awaits
Lady Osprey’s appearance
Welcome home mat’s out.
Donna, I love the way you’ve captured time here — the annual move to from winter to April, from last year to this year, from yesterday to “any day now”. You’ve got a subtle yet expansive view here that resolves in welcome : ) Thank you!
Wow, Donna ..that second sentence is wonderfulI: I had watched it pull on the horizon until the grazing hare had retreated into the brush. Just lovely ~ I had to read the line a few times to savor it. What a happy story followed by a perfect haiku. Lovely.
Donna,
So many careful, beautiful details here. My favorite is:
Love the hope and humor of your haiku.
Thank you for the Prompt – this being a unique way to understand our place on this planet.
” In the times of Chimpanzees, I was a monkey.” quote by Beck, from his song “Loser”.
Beck uses such an array of words to express the culture of our world. Yes, on the surface it seems like his ranting, rubbish, and mixture of rhymes are just there — well…. because they rhyme. However, if you listen with an open mind you can decipher his code and realize he is a social- genius. Much like that of Rage Against The Machine. However, RATM was outright in the with their lyrical outburst of social inequalities. These artists proved in their prime that using words, rhymes, and flow could create change in our society. Beck also stated in “Loser” – “You can’t write if you can’t relate!” To me…. this is telling his audience to decipher his lyrics so change could be possible. — So, on yall’s ride home from work today listen to Beck and RATM!
Depresint
Profound Prodigy
Professional Effigy,
Precise, Patient, Agony.
First of all, Clayton, I’m not sure we’ve interacted out here yet. Hello! And thanks for celebrating a lyrical & sonic wizard. Thanks for reminding us that music fandom can be an act of art & resistance in itself, that you can’t stop the rock : )
Clayton, I confess that I never heard of Beck or RATM, so I spent some time listening and reading lyrics that I don’t think I’d ever have discovered on my own, Beck is right that you can’t write if can’t relate, so I did what you suggested and discovered you were right too. These artists were profound and though we say it in different ways, we agree that injustice and corruption need to be called out. Thanks for the lesson!
Clayton,
I turned on Guero before I reached the end of your prose poem, anticipating your command! Just the musical mood boost I needed right now. Thank you!
I had this album on repeat when it came out. And I feel like it’s going to be back on repeat again for a while. Beck amazes me with the variety of his discography and with the energy of his music and lyrics.
Dear Ann,
Thank you for the opportunity to write a new poetic form. Your poem spoke to my whole heart. I have been thinking of my brother’s memorial service some twenty years ago, and believe it or not, about a plant from that day that grew so large and was so beautiful, and when my dad died in 2022 and my mom had to move in with me, and then a cold snap occurred and Alex’s plant was left behind at my parents home and there had been an electrical fire and there was no heat and his plant did not recover from that series of unfortunate events…and anyway, how funny for me to have had that memory and then to read your poem? Your poem, the unwanted peace plan…whew, your “I’ll find a place for her.” line. Mercy. We need her, we need you. I needed you this morning.
Thank you, I will be back shortly with a poem.
Tracei
Thanks for the prompt, Ann.
Grandpa’s Funeral
I imagined grief would arrive loudly, an open wound, something visible and undeniable. Instead, it settles quietly in the corners of the room where my mother moves without pause. She does not weep. Not because she does not mourn, but because her mourning takes shape in action. Her grief works through her hands, organizing, forgiving, mending what can still be held together. He has been gone to me longer than the two days it took to dress him in a new suit she paid for. Longer than the time it takes to smooth a face, to erase the tobacco stains, to shave away the stubborn gray stubble. He left me—or I left him—three years, five months, and six days ago, when belief and anger became a boundary I could not cross. Now he lies there, arranged and corrected. Flannel replaced with pinstripes, worn edges traded for polish. They have cleaned him into something unrecognizable, a version without the weight of his living. This is not the man who carried peppermint in his pockets, who baited hooks with trembling hands, whose voice held music even in silence. This is a shell, a careful forgetting. Around us, others carry on with their own kind of mourning—voices rising, shoulders shaking, handkerchiefs pressed drama-filled to their faces. Big tears, loud cries, a practiced kind of sorrow that fills the room and fades just as quickly when the cars pull away. I do not weep here. Not for this figure in the satin box. Later, when the house is quiet and the night comes on slow, I’ll find him again in the stories, in the remembering. That’s where my grief lives.
pressed suit, empty hands
peppermint ghosts in my pocket—
I grieve what was real
Melanie, the jarring truth / re-vision of those em-dashes (–or i left him–) in that most difficult and relatable part of your emotional story here. Wow. And thank you for honoring the difficult intimate work that only the most perceptive of funeral goers see, namely, the mourning that “takes shape in action”
Melanie, this haibun you have written today is filled with the eternity of remembering – – peppermint ghosts? Oh, you have truly captured a way of bringing the hands and the arms to the forefront, yes – showing what a shell a mere body is without all the person in there any longer. And all those memories live on. I loved all of this, but this especially is comforting when others wonder about how we grieve so differently: She does not weep. Not because she does not mourn, but because her mourning takes shape in action. Her grief works through her hands, organizing, forgiving, mending what can still be held together.
This haibun is a work of absolute beauty in remembrance today.
“This is a shell, a careful forgetting.” This line spoke volumes to me. Grief has a selective memory. I love your haiku, especially the last line.
This is beautiful Melanie…the weight of your grandfather’s life has been captured with so much precision that I feel the depth of your grief even in the quiet of your mourning. After the stunning paragraph presentation, you managed to capture all those details in your haiku…peppermint ghosts in your pocket…just beautiful.
Beautiful. The line: “Later, when the house is quiet and the night comes on slow, I’ll find him again in the stories, in the remembering” resonates with me. I found much of your writing to be easy to relate to and it brought up memories of both my dad and my grandpa. Candies in pockets and fish hooks and so much more. Thank you for sharing this.
Such power in this haibun, Melanie! I think the form fits the content so very well. The description is vivid, but you pulled key details into the haiku.
I’ve never written a haibun before today. Thanks for the challenge, Ann!
He’s Got a Friend in Me
My firstborn son, Jack, married his high school sweetheart almost five years ago, the summer after the two of them graduated from college. In the months before the wedding, Jack told me he’d enrolled the two of us in dance lessons at Arthur Murray Dance Studio. He wanted us to perform a choreographed mother/son dance at the reception. I’m not a dancer; but when he told me he chose the song “You’ve Got a Friend in Me” from Toy Story for our dance, how could I say no? Rosie, our dance instructor, high heels clicking, wrap-around skirts flowing, taught us how to two-step and sway. Whenever I faltered, she said confidently, “You’ve got this. I believe in you.” Then she incorporated a box step and an underarm turn or two. Finally, she added the separation, where we’d drop two hands and step out with opposite feet and then come together again. Throughout our lessons, and during the dance itself, a reel of memories made it difficult to concentrate on the steps: Jack at two, holding his arms up, “Hold you, Mommy!” Oh the hours we spent playing action figures! From ages two to four, he insisted on wearing a superhero cape to the mall or grocery store. Then, at age 4, his freckled face shining, he told me he thought he might be the real Santa Claus. “I love Kwissmas,” he explained, “and I love giving gifts!” Years of Christmas shopping, decorating, and gift-wrapping…my son the best at picking out the perfect presents. Long early walks around our neighborhood (we called it our 10-mile) and also while vacationing at the beach; we were the only two morning people in the family. My brief foray into running when Jack patiently coached me for a 5K. Our Mom and Son Mulch Company, during Covid, when Jack purchased a pull-behind trailer; and the two of us picked up scoops of mulch from a landscaping wholesale company, hiring ourselves out to anyone needing a flowerbed refresh. Science fair projects, birdwatching festivals, weekend soccer tournaments, our annual trip to the World’s Longest Yard Sale…yes, he will always have a friend in me.
Laughter, long walks, talks
Mother/son dancing before
Taking dance lessons
Lori,
Oh — So much delight in your mother son bond from the early days all the way to the wedding dance. Enjoyed every bit of your memory sharing with such tender rendering. I love this for you and all the readers who get to take part in your slice of life and dance. Beautfiul!
Wow, Lori, you have so beautifully captured the bond of mother and son, parent and child. Your twined lives are a gift and I was moved by the beauty of your dance!
Lori, so much laughter and joy here in your haibun – – the memories, the happy times, and the make-do times during Covid. I love that you danced together, so symbolic of the years to come, continuing the steps and twirls as new family members join in the dance too. I love how you have reached in and brought a ray of sunshine!
I have a friend who is in the midst of preparations for her son’s upcoming wedding. He and his bride-to-be are independent in most of the planning, but my friend is taking her part seriously. Shopping for her dress has been a marathon, recently completed when both bride and groom said “Yes, we like it. We really mean it.”I know she is thinking of her son through the years as you did. I’d like to share your poem.
Thanks, Diane! I’d love for you to share my poem. I hope your friend enjoys it. There are so many emotions as mother of the groom.
Lori, this is a poem about reciprocal kindness and respect. Your choice of words, such as heels clicking and wrap around skirts swirling have me at the studio with you supporting him as he moves to his next chapter. Wonderful
Lori, I am deeply moved by your haibun. Your love for your son radiates off the screen. I love how you incorporate all the lovely memories of your son as he grew up and how you show his generous and winning personality. I’m sure you both impressed the wedding party with your mother/son dance. Gorgeous haibun!
What a blessing to have such a relationship! I lvoe that song from Toy Story so much, and I know I will think of this piece of writing from now on when I hear it.
Quite a challenge, to try the haibun, and to respond to the idea of “the grand possibility of a kinder world and a healed planet.”
Globally, monarch butterflies were given endangered species status in 2022 due to notably declining populations noted in the United States. Since the 1980’s, the decline has been estimated at 80% among Eastern populations and as high as 99% in Western populations. But in the United States they have been considered only for threatened species status. Wildlife groups spread information and encourage planting native milkweed and nectar-producing flowering plants to support monarch caterpillars and adult butterflies. Education is also targeting the elimination of pesticides that are harmful to both the plants and the insects. Larger issues, including climate change and destruction of habitats by logging contribute to the decline of monarchs.
There are human immigrants who travel paths to the US similar to the route of the monarchs. Over the same decades the survival of monarchs has been increasingly threatened, attitudes and policies toward immigrants have become increasingly negative. Just as changes have been called for to protect and support environment, plants and animals, we need fair laws that protect human dignity to reshape immigration in the US. If we can make a difference for butterflies (there are some encouraging reports that the monarch population overwintering in Mexico increased this year), we can make a difference for fellow humans.
Monarchs travel far
We welcome them with gardens
Why not the people?
Thank you, Diane, for braving the form and using it to set up your final question. A powerful effect.
Diane,
Wow, what a brilliant telling of the butterfly migration juxtaposed against the immigration policies and treatment of humans. Evocative prose and poem. Thank you.
Your haibun is powerful, Diane, from its informative tone to its heart-wrenching question.
I love this Diane ~ I too have wondered how we care so little for people. Your comparison of monarchs and humans is brilliant and seems to me such a simple consideration— with all that’s going on in the world, I simply cannot understand why your final question must even be asked, Thanks for offering this dual commentary…
Diane, you raise an important question, and a great point about how we often extend greater welcomes to insects than humans. As you say, we need to cultivate the garden of humanity and have much work to do. Thanks for this poem that makes us stop and think.
Diane, THIS is an important post and a reminder of the parallels. Without changing what we do, our fellow humans are also endangered. Your haiku is perfect. I do realize there were situations with immigrants that were, some years ago, stressing border cities; however, rather than address, support and work with that situation, we build walls and should hateful messages from the loudest of megaphones. Thank you. I think this is an opinion piece for the the NYTimes.
What a great prompt, Ann, and what a picture you paint with words.
Act or React
Thirty years in, and I still don’t know how to parent. I don’t know when to say what I am thinking/feeling and when to hold my tongue. I don’t know when to speak and when to be quiet. I don’t know when to step up and do something and when to stay back. It often feels like whatever I do, it’s the wrong thing. I know that their reaction is often because they feel safe and they know there is unconditional love, but I feel like I am the target of so much of their frustration, insecurity, and anger. I always heard “little kids, little problems; big kids, big problems” and that couldn’t be more true. Their dirty diapers, temper tantrums, and inconsolable tears were easier to deal with than this adulting thing. Maybe it was because I at least felt some control. Now, I’m left to wonder what’s going on, to try to do and say the right thing, and to pick up the pieces after the fact.
I may not need you
but if I do, get here now
and do the right thing.
~Susan Ahlbrand
13 April 2026
Sheesh, such an honest poem, Susan. I totally understand the feeling of being in control or not. Im sure I will feel the same way when my son is older. I’m still at the dirty diaper stage, kid doesn’t even have tears yet. I’m sure both me and my brother have made our mom feel these things you’re feeling and she has said as much about losing control. I’m very independent and moved across the world; I know it’s difficult for her. I linger on your haiku which to me could read from multiple perspectives. Thank you for sharing.
You’ve given words to something I feel, too.
Wow. Such an open, honest poem. I am a happy aunt, and I feel the weight of that. You made me feel the struggles of being a lifelong parent. I really resonated with the haiku–there was so much in the lines.
Well Susan, you’ve certainly captured the perils of adulting which I too, am trying to navigate. I have gotten to the point where I hear the little voice telling met to hold my tongue but then I disregard it and speak my mind. I’m not one to offer you solace, but I will to say your words expressed the conundrum perfectly.
Susan,
Thank you for naming the complicated chaos of a mother’s heart. I too feel this so much. Beautifully documented within your prose and poetry. May the writing and sharing provide some comfort.
Oh, Susan! I’m right there with you. My boys are 24 and 27. Sometimes the only way I can respond to a text is the noncommittal, yet acknowledging, thumbs up emoji. Thankfully, they cannot see the look on my face. Thank you for sharing this true, true tale.
Susan, you speak the language of parents parenting adult children – – or attempting to. Perhaps allegedly parenting is the way I feel. You echo my feelings – – the little kids are easy, where we have more control over preventing mistakes and troubling situations…..the adults? Oh, yes…..that’s a whole different level, and your poem says what so many of us feel…..they need us when they say they need us and not when WE think and want them to need us.
Oh Susan, I definitely felt this one today as a mom still in those “little kid/big kid” moments! Your haiku is a great end to this because it embodies that idea that they do still need us. Everyone is still needed. Even when we are parents, we still need ours!
I started reading this morning’s prompt and thought, “This sounds like Ann,” and looked up to see it was Ann with her scaredy-cat dog (I should read the bios first). Thank you for being such a gentle force of nature; I’m forever thankful for the ways your books have allowed so many of us to flood classrooms with history and language. I loved everything about your story of a peace plant (and the haiku that accompanied it). It prompted me to think about the stories planted around my home.
Vaccinium Corymbosum
She often bought pierogis, leaving the plate on the floor of my breezeway. Whenever I walked the dogs by her house they knew they’d get sandwich meat. – it’s why I’d always find them on her front porch when they escaped the yard.
Najdrobniejszy akt życzliwości wart jest największej uwagi. Kahil Gibran can be translated into any language – kindness is meant to be universal.
On birthdays, when her kids came to visit, I’d bring her orchids, hyacynths, and eventually blueberry bushes to celebrate her life. She’d plant them along the fence we shared so they could kvetch with one another, including my own.
between our two homes
bees pollinate white flowers
causing blueberries.
I remember the morning her husband fell. Pomocy! Potrzebuję pomocy! Mój mąż upadł. I ran over and helped him off the ground. He was lying in her daffodils.
A few months later he passed.
She followed soon after.
I love the story. So much going on. I love the idea of the blueberry bushes “kvetching” and Gibran’s quote shown in you and the woman. Thanks for sharing.
Oh, such beauty here. I loved the mixing of language and flower images. The story was so sweet and tender. This is a poem that I will sit with for a while.
Thanks for you kind words Bryan, not surprising coming from someone who is as kind as you…you’ve painted a beautiful picture here…I see and hear your neighbor (and your dogs) I see the orchids hyacinths, the blueberry, the fence, the neighbors and the kindness they shared. I see the daffodils, an image that at first startled me and then spoke (in the language of flowers) of rebirth…and whose fragrant petals trumpet joy. Your matter of fact lines seem to suggest that these reciprocal acts of kindness are the way life should be.
Your lovely poem made me smile and long for a connection with my neighbors. Thank you for sharing.
Bryan,
I love the genesis of the writing from the title all the way to the bare bones of this relationship. How lovely that you shared this bond that is measured in so much affection & care.
bees pollinate white flowers
causing blueberries.
Brilliant use of Kahil Gibran’s quote along with how you showed up at the right time. The imagery and metaphor weaved in with so much beauty. A terrific reminder of love and peace.
I’ve read and re-read this. I love this story of good neighbors, the flowers and fruit at the fence, making the fence a place to bring neighbors together rather than keeping them apart. I am sorry your neighbors are gone, you must miss them.
Bryan, pollination “causing” blueberries is a great way to verb that process. I love the CAUSE here. And even though the ending is rather sad, the falling into daffodils at least brings the yellow smile of sunshine, like he is off into a happier world of daffodils, and pulling her there with him. Sometimes the gobsmack of reality has a smile, as your poem shows.
Kindness IS meant to be universal…love the offering of plants and eventually blueberry bushes as celebrations of life (birthdays). Also love your use of “kvetch” – so flavorful – no other word can quite stand in for it. I appreciate the slight change of form here with the haiku not at the end – for then we would have missed “him” falling in “her daffodils,” an image that is utterly indelible. From the bees causing blueberries to “her” going so soon after “him” – there’s a world of life and love in these utterly marvelous lines.Thank you for the gift of this, Bryan.
Haibun: Sidewalk Edge
On the concrete sidewalk between nail kiosks and patio de comida, between the barking guard dog for “Doctor Pet’s” and the woman praying at the ten-foot cross in front of our apartment on Avenida Cultura, women set up long tables, hoist umbrellas and tarps, and begin the slow work of public life. Anticuchos simmer—grilled beef heart skewers—alongside choclo con queso, boiled Andean corn with cheese, and picarones, sweet potato donuts dusted in sugar. We have been here four weeks and never seen this in front of our building. Why today? Or maybe it was always here and only now visible.
It is election season. Yesterday there was a parade with full marching bands, the last day to campaign. Today, neighbors stream steadily in and out of the apartment gate for food, for conversation, for something like participation. It is election day in Peru. Voting is mandatory. There are fines for absence, deadlines for presence, instructions for belonging. Now it’s the day after: Officials say tens of thousands will be given a second chance to vote after ballots failed to arrive in time.
The street feels like instruction and celebration at once—children in school uniforms learning how democracy is performed, elders warning of corruption, music spilling into the heat. And still, the food is what people gather around. The music is what carries. The bodies know what to do even when the system does not.
I have seen versions of this elsewhere. Playa women in purple sang “¿Dónde están, dónde están, dónde están nuestros desaparecidos?” on the malecon. Thousands gathered in Cairo to demand aid for Gaza. Crete farmers stormed Heraklion Airport’s tarmac. Pensioners in Milan held trains for equity.
Everything I see gathers at the sidewalk’s edge, where I keep drifting through the in-between, watching but not stepping fully inside.
street rehearses peace
I watch from borrowed stoops
each scene echoes world
Note: This poem was also a mentor text for me today: Haibun by Maureen Thorson: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/149728/time-traveler39s-haibun-1989
I love the movement in this poem – from the food stall you never noticed, to the various people involved with the election, to other countries – and bringing it back to the sidewalk’s edge. Could be anywhere, yes. Thank you for sharing a glimpse of Peru and other countries too.
Your words today are powerful for me. I connect with it and wonder how many others in my shoes sit with it like I do. I have been where you are talking about. I have seen the people — pray, gather, sing, and storm. In some way your haibun is awakening something within me as a realization of my own, but I’m not sure what it is just yet. I do know it is becoming clearer. The haiku is something I would love to quote from you on postcards I send to friends when I’m on borrowed stoops. Can I?
Wow Sarah, you’ve presented so much for me to think about…maybe it was always here and only now visible was at first reading, the overflowing table of food— or does it refer to the celebration of a fragile democracy with children and elders simply rehearsing peace? Thank you this haibun that leaves me wondering if it is a window or a mirror,
Sarah, it’s comforting to think about the role of food and festivity especially in the face of catastrophic system failure, and you capture it here: The bodies know what to do even when the system does not. Oooh, how I love the human element of dealing with things – – music and food and all the living of a moment in time.
Sarah, the gathering at the sidewalk’s edge with its placement of people alongside food and music showcases the heart of a city. It’s in the nourishment and the celebrating where we live and you share this so vividly. I’m struck by your placement here as well, in the in-between drifting and how, as a traveler, you immerse without fully being swallowed. What a wondrous place to be living (in the in-between of working and retiring in your sabbitament).
Sarah – I see the sights, smell the amazing food…and I am awed by the colors and music on election day. “The body knows what to do do even when the system does not” – magnificent!
Sarah — I really appreciated seeing and feeling the scene through your description. Seeing democracy played out right there in the street where you are… that’s a powerful scene… the “instruction and celebration” … seems so positive and good. When you saw the “versions… elsewhere,” I was struck by the “desaparecidos”… the scary and difficult things that constitute human struggling to find peace and “equity.” That you get to observe these bits of life “at the sidewalk’s edge” is life altering. It makes me wonder about a poem that is written by one of the many people you’ve encounter as they might write about watching you at the edge…. what would their haiku be? Would they see you at the edge or would they see you immersed in the place? Maybe we blend more than we know. Maybe not. Thought provoking. Hugs, Susie
Thanks for this interesting prompt! I’ve never heard of a haibun poem before, so I was glad to try it out. I enjoyed yours, the imagery and metaphor are strong.
Holding Space
A grateful hug, and then another, both of us on the receiving end. A simple How’ve you been? makes her eyes fill with tears. She’s holding it together, barely. I listen, nodding. I’ve been here before. I want to say it gets better, but she’s not there yet. The pain she carries was once mine. The despair she’s feeling, I felt too. I wish I could take it all away. But I can’t. She has to move through it, like I did.
Things are hard right now
But they won’t be forever
I am proof of that
Oh, what a reckoning of acknowledgment that hugs are for recipients both, and that there is hope beyond the darkness that one can only go through, like a dynamic character in some story that we wish were fiction but it’s real life non-fiction of the most devastating kind and yet……there is light at the end of the tunnel that the other hugger cannot see yet. And you are living proof that they, too, will see it soon, like a conduit to bring a fusion of the start of healing, knowing for her that when the pain subsides and the laughter begins, things will be better again.
Your poem expresses the sometimes difficult fact that those who are feeling pain don’t want to be told it will get better. It’s sometimes difficult to just be there for someone and know that no words will help. They have “to move through it”. I love that the I understands everything and is “proof” that “Things are hard right now /
But they won’t be forever”. Thank you for sharing!
The restraint evidenced in your haibun belies the depth of feeling which it holds. What you want to say but don’t say carries the heaviness of a pain and despair deep enough to change us and make us wiser. Well done!
The detail of the tears in the eyes help me understand that feelings draw connections. And your last line of the haiku has so much hope. Thank you for sharing this. It settles some peace even within myself. Sending even more hugs.
This is a poem that so many of us need today, this week, this month, this year. The haiku resonated. But, for me the line that made me sigh was “A grateful hug, and then another, both us on the receiving end.” That shared moment of human touch/support.
I appreciate this haibun of hope. I also applaud your wisdom in knowing she’s not ready, yet, to hear that it will get better…that you have been there, that you are proof. I love that last line!
Thank you, Ann, for this haibun. Your poem moves so gently from ritual of mourning to the quiet aftercare of grief, where even plants become memory-keepers. I love how the “Peace Plant” arrives last, almost unwanted, then becomes necessary; your final turn feels like a vow of hope inside a fractured world.
Sarah
Ann, thank you for hosting us today with haibun inspiration. Your poem brings all the tender feelings of caring for funeral plants and finding places for them in our homes and lives. It’s a beautiful thing to nurture plants and think of the person who is no longer here. My late mother in law nurtured two she’d named for friends who went before her – actually called them Jan and Harold. I’m glad you took the peace plant!
The Head or The Feet?
Saturday morning breakfast at the Country Kitchen on Pine Mountain we were waiting on our eggs and grits when I saw him shuffle past our table. A young and impatient mother with a crying child pitching a fit was stuck behind the elderly gentleman in in the aisle, clearly frustrated at his slow speed, in his ill-fitting sweatpants with black socks and orthopedic sandals. He veered right n the direction of the restroom and she squeezed left to her table, kid still screaming. My husband’s back was to the action as I gave the play-by-play. Notice him, I urged, when he comes back by. I thought it ironic that his orthopedic sandals looked like hiking sandals. Life can be cruel like that sometimes, but eggs arrive to scramble hard truths. I was taking a bite when my husband asked, Is that a veteran’s hat? We should buy his breakfast. And the next minute, this husband of mine – just like his mother would have done – excuses himself to walk by the man’s table to get a better look. And then I saw them talking. Why did tears fill my eyes? Why, here at this table, over eggs and bacon, coffee and grits and buttered biscuits with muscadine preserves, was I crying as I watched my husband place his hand on the shoulder of the old man and his wife as he thanked him for his service. I escaped to the gift shop to collect myself, wipe away the tears, before my husband returned with the scoop – as his mother would have done: it’s a veteran’s hat. He’s 78, was a sergeant in the Army, and he has four kids who are all currently serving in the military. His wife told me he has cancer, and when he finished chemo and his gray hair came back dark. And he always smiles. So we finished our last bites and I felt the tears welling again, excused myself to the restroom, and was almost fine until the old man walked by and place his hand on my husband’s shoulder in gesture of figuring out who’d treated them to breakfast. And I realized what we’d always said of ourselves when we walk into a place: I look down for snakes, he looks up for bees ~ and though we see things differently, we don’t miss what’s important.
I looked down, old feet
my husband looked up, saw him ~
a soldier marching
Oh Kim,
This is so beautifully touching and poetic all at the same time. I love how you sequenced the play by play scene, your mother-in-law, the mom and crying, the veteran, the breakfast. The haibun to wrap that moment in time. You have me all teary-eyed and smiling at the same time. What a gift!
I had to sit with this a bit before I could respond, Kim. So moving. So incredibly moving in the uncovering of this scene, in the description that revealed so many layers of life around and within the very human breakfast at a diner. So moving to see this humanity, this love, this care. And what an answer to Ann’s invitation to write about peace today, peace in the war-filled, cancer-spreading life of this man and his family. I love the shift where “he looks up for bees” lands—it beautifully gathers difference and love into one small, faithful act of noticing.
Peace,
Sarah
Kim, Kim, Kim. Your story, so real, condensed into that beautiful haiku. I needed a cry this morning…
Thank you for sharing this story, Kim. I love how the haiku sums up exactly what your whole prose poem describes. It’s crazy how only 3 lines and 17 syllables can do that and pay respect to what your husband notices and the man.
Stunning, Kim. Gorgeous. Also, necessary in a time in history where our narratives seem amok as the Orcs & Slytherins have found themselves emboldened once again. The story, followed by the haiku, what’s at our feet and what’s flying above, is an image I’m carrying with me today (and such a strategy could possibly be a poem prompt for the future). Powerful.
This is such a beautiful small moment, that could have easily gone unnoticed, but you, as a writer, noticed and created a beautiful poem out of it.
Kim, this is beautiful, so visual— it’s as if you’ve elevated the haibun to a kind of modern triptych-haibun, capturing three connected stories, and rendering three distinct visions,,,in the center the old man in his ill-fitting sweatpants and orthopedic sandals but superimposed as a soldier marching…on left panel the harried mother and crying child..and on the right panel the couple who noticed. Just beautiful.
Kim, your attention to details is captivating. I like the layers of generations and relationships that go through this poem. Connections matter and have a large impact, even over things like eggs and bacon.
“a soldier marching”
so much of your haibun fits right into those words
Oh, my heart. This poem. So many tears.
Oh wow, Kim! Your weaving the story threads to the last bit of looking up and down and taking us into the soldier is just so deftly done. I love that this makes me realize how having the story behind the haiku adds so much layering and eliminates the reader’s interpretations (not that those aren’t valid or good). I want to share this with my students! They will make the connections between your prose and your poetry, which is so simply yet complexly done
Kim, this is a story of absolute kindness and respect for others. Your words take with on this journey with you into the restaurant and to your eggs. You and your husband have my respect and gratitude for making this world a little better, one step at a time.
Because of your vivid writing, I could see, so clearly, this exchange taking place. I particularly loved the way you shared your outlooks on life…you looking down for snakes and your husband looking up for bees. I’m so glad you and your husband were able to honor this gentleman. Your haibun touched my heart.
Kim, what an incredible moment you’ve shared through your haibun today. I adore the way you share how you and your husband differ, and how moved you were by his generous actions. The scene is vivid as are the emotions. Thanks for sharing this loving and generous experience.
Kim, I feel as if I just watched a movie, or read a novel…the images are so clear and the emotions so real. What a beautiful heart your husband has…but see, that’s where the two of you are alike. The rest is just balance. God grant that veteran healing and grace…
This is everything. Love. Observation. Care. Noticing. Sharing. Knowing one another. Generosity.
You re-tell the scene so beautifully with such great detail. And then that haiku just distills it down (per instructions) the the gist . . . though there could be LOTS of different gists from this breakfast outing.
Thanks for sharing, Kim.
Kim, wow…this is such an incredibly touching story. Your attention to details–it’s a gift of noticing. No wonder, you “don’t miss what’s important.” I wish we had more kindness and more people like you and your husband. I am tearing up too. The haiku beautifully provides a gist of the story. Thank you!
Gosh, I’m crying at my computer in a room of teenagers. Whew. I needed to cry though, my eyes have been so dry lately. I appreciate you, your husband, the solider, his wife, their kids, dang it, you tell a good haibun. Thank you.
Ann, thank you for hosting today and bringing us a reminder of how to address a “universe on fire.”
We start the week. It could be a new look. A fresh start to the first of a five-day stretch. I often empathize with a case of the Mondays. We wake to our coffee, as usual. Our routine helps. Living and moving cliches–one-day-at-a-time. Early-morning sirens make our dog howl. That can’t be good. Someone didn’t wake for a new week. Yet we continue. We welcome this present.
unique, innovate
Monday feels, new emotions
back to business blues
Stefani,
What a succinct and sharp way of capturing the Monday anticipation and the week. Wonderful!
Stefani,
Your poem holds that quiet tension of beginning again: the coffee, the routine, the sirens reminding us life is still happening alongside us. I love how “Monday feels” lands as both weary and awake, and that ending haiku turns it into something soft, grounded, and almost accepting.
I so wonder if those Monday feels and business blues ever go away.
Sarah
Stefani, just yesterday I mentioned to my husband my amazement that no matter how hard we try to be present to the moment, routine distracts us. I, too, have a dog who howls— in the beginning it spooked me but now it’s a reminder of unknown lives living simultaneously, A true moment of clarity…and then back to business blues…
Stefani, what a way to appreciate a case of the Mondays – – by counting the blessings of life and being here with each other – – even on Monday.
Hearing the siren and thinking someone didn’t wake up frightens me. Yet you move through to doing the business of Monday.
Ann, I had a peace plant from my Grannie’s funeral for many years. Her name was Lillie and whenever I saw the plant, I would think Peace, Lillie. “In a universe on fire…” we crave peace more than ever. Will we ever learn to live peaceably with one another?? Much food for thought. Thank you for this rich, poignant haibun and the powerful inspiration today.
She Was a Good Rat
I am teaching second-graders how to write haiku. They’re captivated by the syllables, rhythmically chanting while tapping their fingers, five, seven, five. They have challenged me to write a poem about hair falling from the sky (!!) and somehow I manage it (orange angel hair that ended up in the Christmas tree topper of my 1970s childhood; my mother said not to touch it because it can cut you and to this day I wonder why angel hair is sharp enough to slice humans. The real question is whether it’s angel hair or plain old fiberglass. This is poetry; I’m sticking with the former). Then I challenge the kids: What about haiku for a rat that died? For a split second, stillness. Big eyes. Blinking. She was a good rat, I say…and immediately the little fingers come out. The syllabic chanting, the instantaneous revision, giggling, for isn’t poetry all about the unexpectedness of things? I do not tell them why I chose this topic, that one of the school’s lab rats died that morning at home (note: these are pets; not for experiments) and that the teacher told me how: It had a tumor which burst, sending the rat into a panicked frenzy, flinging blood everywhere, and there was nothing for it but to put her (the rat) into the homemade euthanasia chamber… and…there wasn’t enough decompressed gas the first time and the rat was still breathing until the can was changed…yes, there are horrors in the world that the kids don’t need to know yet and I would, by God, keep them from experiencing them if I could. It’s enough for me to know a little living thing just left the world after such suffering and it deserves a eulogy, although, truth be told, I am the one who needs the poem…
She was a good rat
all her rat-friends wave good-bye
with little pink hands
Fran,
Your ability to retell and capture all these incredible moments in prose is simply WOW! The haibun is so sweet and tender. This is exactly what we need in this moment. Thank you!
Fran,
Oh, so good to see and feel your words today. This is such a striking piece in the way it holds the brightness of children chanting syllables alongside the quiet, unbearable knowledge you’re carrying underneath. I love how “She was a good rat” becomes both eulogy and shield, and those “little pink hands” at the end feel heartbreakingly tender.
Peace,
Sarah
Hi Fran. I have missed you and of course, what a first poem for me to read after a while. I don’t know why I read your haiku before the prose but I did. And I thought, ok. But then I read the prose and Jesus (sorry) what a story. I can’t believe this happened to the rat. It reminded me of like George Stinney’s electrocution being too small for it to work at first. And you of course not wanting to tell the children but just asking them to write something for the rat. And I’m assuming that’s what they came up with and it made me cry “little pink hands” omggg 😭 So, thank you for writing such a heartbreakingly beautiful haibun.
Franna! You have drawn me into this story of second graders and the poor rat who suffered greatly. How we want to shield our littles for as long as we can from horrors and let them write haiku about a rat that was loved. The “little pink hands” makes me tear up. And I am Not a fan of rats. Leo found a dead one on our walk last week and I couldn’t bear to look at it. He kicked it, of course, being the 7 year old boy that he is. Thanks for showing me how to make a small moment matter in a poem.
Little pink hands. Good-byes. Rat-Friends. Eulogy and cruelty handled delicately in a moment with 2nd grade haikus (I’m reminded of the family covering the t.v. in Matt de la Peña’s LOVE, as the child in pajamas stands on the chairs). Yes there are horrors in this world and you, with care, brought all of us a little grace this morning. Phew.
Ok Fran, I can honestly say that crying for a rat was never on my bingo card..,and yet here I am, teary eyed…for the loss of a good rat and for her rat friends waving good-bye with little pink hands (such a perfect haiku) or am I moved by the innocence of children and the beauty of a teacher sensitive enough to recognize a living thing just left the world after such suffering and that there are horrors in the world that kids don’t need to know yet.
Fran, I am so, so glad you are here today. I have missed your writing voice and the always amazingness of your storytelling. Today’s is just that. The setting of second-graders and angel hair and all the innocence and big eyes and finger counting against the decompressed gas and homemade euthanasia chambers that don’t quite work along with hair sharp enough to slice shows us the reality of the world. And brings us to the much needed and simplified poem that reminds us of the good.
Fran, gracious goodness alive! That poor good little rat friend suffered such a horrendous end. But what a balm for little hurting hearts: a lesson in how poetry heals our grief, gives us the images of tiny pink hands waving goodbye to a rat friend, a heavenly sendoff of the very best kind. Leave it to you to give us this peace. And I love the Peace, Lillie!
I liked your line of “little pink hands”. Your poem encompasses the more positive and soft views of children while still being tinged with harsh reality. I like how the ending was a bit of both.
Oh, Fran, this is quite an experience. I am horrified by the poor rat’s situation and am delighted by the children’s enthusiasm. What I love best is how you arrive to the end of your passage and deliver this terrific line: “truth be told, I am the one who needs the poem…” Oh heck, yes! You run a gamut of emotions in this one! Powerful!
Little pink hands … and profound reverence for life has been with me all day since reading your haibun this morning, thinking what to say in response. It’s beautiful. It was heartbreaking. And heartwarming.A gentle way to help second graders honor even the smallest life.
I can vividly picture this classroom and the spark lit in those students. Love it!
Fran, I read your post hours ago and have started responses 2 other times and become distracted, needed to teach…anyway…Your narrative is so real and such a strong change takes place from the eager hands of those children creating and becoming to that poor rat’s final moments of agony. That contrast is powerful and makes the waving rat hands even more of a tragedy, in my opinion, This is powerful.
Oof. The contrast between the poem, the reality, the sorrow, the need. Wow.
When the world is on fire, the atmosphere so conflagrant that one small word ignites and lifts into the breeze only to land inches, feet, miles away, the perfect tinder to burn down the world anew, that, that is when one drops a pebble into the water, watching small ripples begin before continuously expanding outward in concentric circles. Mesmerizing as a fire to witness, yet more soothing, for once the ripples reach their destination, they are returned, just as gently, given back only to bounce and ripple outward once more.
the ripple effect
each small kindness toward others
makes a broad impact
(Ann, the decision to spread kindness into the world, making one small area safer, more beautiful, a place of sanctuary, in hopes of expanding peace seems ever so important now. I have been working toward this goal daily, dropping seeds in hopes they flourish. Knowing that you are also focusing on peace within our world got me thinking of the ripple effect that I use in our social justice unit to show students how one act can change the world. Your poem is a beautiful offering of how finding a place for peace is that one small step.)
Beautifully rendered, Jennifer, this contrast of fire and water, anger and kindness. A reminder that kindness and peace begin with “me.”
Jennifer,
This is such a valuable insight coupled with advocacy for justice. I appreciate how you used the ripples as a metaphor within your poem to spread kindness juxtaposed with the contrast of fire. I also love the imagery of the concentric circles —- it adds to the ripple effect! Thank you.
Jennifer,
I love hearing about your social justice unit and am also thinking about the group you lead in your church community for healing. So grateful for your ripple-effect.
This poem is so beautifully balanced between urgency and calm: the fire and then the water arriving like a breath the body needed. I love how “one drops a pebble into the water” shifts everything into care, and that ending haiku makes kindness feel both small and endlessly expanding at the same time.
Peace,
Sarah
The cause and effect of Fire and Water here is so well described. I love the imagery – I can see this happening literally and figuratively.
Go more gently into the dark night comes to mind as I read your poem that takes fire and water on a metaphorical journey. I pray every day for the ripple of kindness to destroy the fire of hatred.
Jennifer, I like the way you juxtapose fire and water, highlighting that a ripple of water is as mesmerizing as fire to witness, yet more soothing. I need to hold that in my heart…
Jennifer, ripples reverberate through the soul, as does your poem today, reminding us of impact – – the constant, never-ending effects of action. Beautiful!
Your poem the ideas it captures are simply beautiful. I know you do so much to bring kindness to the world.
The ripple effect and the expanding outward and the theme of kindness makes me think of a favorite read aloud I loved to share with my students.
Thank you for sharing! I love Jackie Woodson’s writing and will look for this.
Yes, one of my regular read-alouds for starting the school year and in APRIL when 5th graders lose their kindness. 🤣
Jennifer — I watched the “ripples” and the “bounce…outward”… mesmerizing. It felt like a relief after “world…on fire,” which drags at my sensibilities every day. I love the “small kindness…broad impact.” I do believe this. I so want this…we all need this. Thank you. Susie
Thanks for the lovely prompt and form.
Kevin
These woods we know so well seem empty as we walk. I let her off the leash and now she is the lead, and I am the follower. I sense the river, swollen now with the early Spring rains and late Winter melt. She looks back, constantly, to make sure I am with her, and I am, with her, moving forward, noticing but never seeing the orchestra tumbling towards some distant sea.
A river roars through,
out of eyesight but still, there,
a voice, shouting: time
Kevin, I love the peace in this moment, the roaring a backdrop to the interaction between you and your dog. Your description of the river as an orchestra tumbling toward the sea is so beautifully chosen, a prelude to the haiku that follows.
So majestic, Kevin – the woods, the dog, the sea, and time.
Kevin,
This is so quietly powerful in the way it lets the pup become the guide and the speaker become the one learning to follow, step by step, into something larger than what can be seen. I love “noticing but never seeing the orchestra tumbling towards some distant sea”—it holds that beautiful tension between presence and mystery, and the ending haiku lands like a clear, inevitable truth moving through everything.
Sarah
I love the use of melt as a noun here: “ I sense the river, swollen now with the early Spring rains and late Winter melt.” I had to read it a couple times. You describe the thereness mixed with the unseeing of the river so well.
Your poem makes me think of Tom Ryan’s book Following Atticus. What a beautiful thing: a dog off-leash, running ahead.
Kevin, this is quiet and simple and having just read Jennifer’s poem, further reminds me of the comfort of the river…the orchestra tumbling towards some distance sea. What a beautiful line!
I love walking beside you. I think our dogs could be friends. My dog Albert, “Al-bear”, doesn’t know strangers. He loves everybody, every dog, every cat.
I also love how you ended the haiku portion “a voice, shouting:time” Few words that pack a punch!
Kevin, you capture so much in the prose and then your haiku is perfection with the unexpected shout of time!
Anne, what a beautiful haibun. I love your description of organization and then distillation. That makes so much sense to me. Of course the Peace Plant was hoping for a home in the heart of a poet…of course. Thank you for hosting today. I hope to be back later with some writing.