Haibun: Bees

Haibun: Bees
“To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee, And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few.” Emily Dickinson

I began keeping bees last year. I wanted to be sure because it is quite a commitment. I have one hive but it is a busy one! A typical hive takes visiting about two million flowers a season to produce one pound of honey. I often sit on my back steps watching them going back and forth, in and out of flowers. I keep clover blooming from late winter to late autumn. It is a labor of love with me. Listening to their somnolent hum, their burying themselves in flowers and coming out covered with pollen. Interestingly, they do not destroy their source of pollen as humans destroy their source of anything in the natural world. And I must confess, I am allergic to bee stings!
bee staggers drunk –
sipped sweetness day long
and slept well all night

Haibun: The Balloon

For Merrill’s prompt at dVerse – a quadrille.  A quadrille is a poem in any form with exactly 44 words using the prompted word, sans title.  The word today is “rise”.  A haibun in the manner of Basho.

 

Haibun: The Balloon
“Perhaps wisdom… is realizing how small I am, and unwise, and how far I have yet to go.” Anthony Bourdain

The day I buried my mother’s ashes was a hot summer day. I untied the balloon from my wrist and let it go. I watched it rise quickly to the sky.
balloon rises to heaven
and clears the trees –
my heart goes with it

Haibun: Summer Tomatoes

A haibun of exactly 75 words in the manner of Basho for my prompt at Real Toads, Day 15 of NAPOWRIMO. A haibun is a Japanese poetic form consisting of a true autobiographical part and ended with a seasonal haiku.

 

Haibun: Summer Tomatoes
“It’s difficult to think anything but pleasant thoughts while eating a homegrown tomato.” Lewis Grizzard

It was the middle of July; mama had died mid-June. She is the one who taught me all of my gardening and canning skills. The tomatoes hung thick from the vines. To encourage more blooms, I buried the fertilizer spike.
soft like my mama’s cheek
I held the tomato to my face –
watered it with my tears

Snowing in my mind

A haibun of 107 words in the manner of Basho for Izy’s pillow fort prompt on Day 11 of NAPOWRIMO

Snowing in my mind
I don’t have a bed or pillow fort. But I do have a set of cool satin sheets I love to roll on after my husband has gone to work. I love the cool feeling against my skin; especially during the hot spring and summer when I get so hot, even in the air conditioning. I lay in the silence of the morning and look at the grey light coming in between the blinds. I pretend it is snowing. I love snow. I love the coolness of the satin sheets.
hot summer mornings –
it is cool in thoughts
of snow rather than sun

 

In the Backyard at Night

In the manner of Ezra Pound’s In the Station the a Metro. In its entirety:

The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals on a wet, black bough.

For those of you who think all poems must be long.

In the Backyard at Night
the clouds drift and cover the full moon.
a coyote carries a dead rabbit in its mouth.

 

Night Trolling

Night Trolling
“When I go fishing I like to know that there’s nobody within five miles of me.” Norman MacCaig

I used to love fishing with my parents, especially at night.  We slowly and blindly trolled our lines, waiting for the fish to hit the bait.
silence on the water –
a swift pull on the line –
a bass at the end of the line

 

Haibun: Neighborhood Music

For Carrie’s Sunday Muse #48

Haibun: Neighborhood Music
“Time is the longest distance between two places.” Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie

Mrs. Williamson was a crochety old woman. She had a thousand sets of collected salt and pepper shakers, windows hung with handmade lace, and a hand wound old Victrola up in her bedroom. Sometimes through the neighborhood you could hear the scratchy music winding through the neighborhood. “You can bring Sal she’s a real nice gal but don’t bring Lulu” or, “He was going down the grade making 90 miles an hour, His whistle broke into a scream, He was found in the wreck with his hand on the throttle, Scalded to death by the steam”. The wreck of the Old 97 was her song when she was melancholy and sipping on sherry. Of course she died, in the midst of 1950’s rock and roll and bee bop aloo-ing whining. She left me her Victrola and half of her salt and pepper shakers because I would play with them when I visited.
summer nights seem empty
without the sound of old songs –
stars fall from the sky

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