What if? Can humans? Do trees?

For the prompt over at Real Toads, Magaly poses three questions in strange news. Which when you think about them, aren’t really strange at all.  This is also posted on Poets United Poetry Pantry.

What if? Can humans? Do trees?
“It seems to me that we all look at Nature too much, and live with her too little…I discern great sanity in the Greek attitude…They loved the trees for the shadow that they cast, and the forest for its silence at noon.” Oscar Wilde

I know things. It is what I do.
I cook and I know things.
A team of scientists in Austria
armed with lasers and spending much time determined:
Trees sleep at night.
Their branches slightly bow down as if weighted with ice
or rain. They emit carbon dioxide at night
when breathing. In their dreams
(for trees do dream)
they see birds flying over head,
fantastical creatures and they watch
as purple bears and green squirrels
wander past.
Humans wander into the forest,
blind creatures who smell their way through
the forest, who sniff the scent of rain
dripping off branches. Humans smell the beauty of
the soil and ferns. The trees peer
up at the empty night sky from which the moon
has disappeared. The trees waken
listening for the songs of shattered stars
in the black night. But the moon has
taken herself to the land of purple bears
and green squirrels. While nose alive humans
sniff and snort the scent of beauty like
cocaine. Beauty and absent moon,
sleeping trees.
The dreaming trees look at the black sky
and sigh, missing the moon.

sleeping trees

Walkin’ in This Moment

Karin at Real Toads prompts us to write about this moment in time.  Everyday in all weathers, I walk,  I usually hum or sing while I walk.  I am glad no one is around to hear!

Walkin’ in This Moment
“And I sang with all my might
And she said
“Tell me are you a Christian child?”
And I said “Ma’am I am tonight”    Marc Cohen Walkin’ in Memphis

warm day in February
and drizzling rain.
Wearing my cowboy hat
with the silver band.
Down to the culdesac,
back up to the top of the hill.
Past the woods where my best friend lives
and down to the gurgling creek.
Hands in my pockets
and singing aloud with all my voice.
Walkin’ in Memphis…
But do you really feel the way I feel?

Haibun: Today’s Menu

For Susan’t prompt at Poets United Wednesday Motif: Zero Tolerance. Not one of my usual spare haibun.

Haibun: Today’s Menu
“Kindness is free.” Anthony Bourdain

Today’s Menu: Steamed cabbage, cole slaw, cabbage rolls made with deer meat, mashed potatoes, apples and oranges for dessert, white loaf bread. Tomorrow the meal will be tuna casserole with lots of noodles, cole slaw, restaurant donated desserts. All these items have been made with donated food – rotten pieces cut off from vegetables, meat donated by local hunters, dried milk to add protein in the potatoes. I cut and cook and serve along with the other volunteers. At 11:00 people begin lining up for their daily meal. They shuffle through the line – some of them with their eyes down, others bright and cheerful, some resigned, all of them grateful. No keto diets, no special needs meals, no no-carb meals, no I’m vegetarian or vegan. They are all hungry. They eat what they are given. They want some of everything. They eat it all and when everyone has gone through the line and all the places at the tables are filled and all are fed, they come back for whatever leftovers are offered. We smile at everyone. We plate the food carefully rather than slopping it on a plate. We try to give respect. I volunteer three days at week at a local food bank cooking food, making up bags of donated staple food, serving it and washing dishes afterwards. I look them all in the eye. This is the face of America. These are the invisible hungry in our midst. I have zero tolerance for hunger.
spring-like winter day –
the hungry come every day –
a chill in the air

Tribute: Rachel Sutcliffe

Recently Rachel Sutcliff died.  She was a consummate artist of haiku.  She was a member of the British Haiku society and often featured on Frank Tassone’s site about Haijin and writing of haibun, tanka, haiku.  She suffered from an immune deficiency disorder and died a little every day.  Her voice will be missed.

Tribute:  Rachel Sutcliffe
bitter winter day –
the sun comes out briefly.
pond ice melts slowly.



For Sarah’s prompt at dVerse: Harbingers.  During the olden days in Japan and today actually, cherry blossoms are important.  They are signs of beauty in the spring but they are also part of death.  A tree will be full of the blooms and a week later, all the blooms will have fallen to their death – cherry blossom rain.


“As you move through this life and this world, you change things slightly; you leave marks behind, however small. And in return, life …-leaves marks on you. Most of the time, those marks–on your body or on your heart–are beautiful. Often, though, they hurt.” Anthony Bourdain

An owl ghosting through the darkness,
A hawk sailing on the thermals.
A small cat giving birth for the first time
In the freezing rain,
My mother holding up her hand,
Reaching for her long dead mother
That only she can see.
Harbingers of death –
It comes for us all
Sure as the cherry blossoms in spring.

Haibun: The Woodpecker

For Kim’s Prompt over at Real Toads.  Based on a book she is reading, she became entranced with the words “sarcastic percussion”.  She wants us to write about an instrument or sarcastic percussion.  LOL.  We had a perfect example of this last Sunday morning – early!

Haibun: The Woodpecker

Silent Sunday Morning – suddenly – BAP! BAPBAPBAPBAP! BAP! My husband rolls over and mutters, we may as well have a cat. Again – BAPBBAPBAPBAPBAPBAP! Like a snare drum. It is the woodpecker, I mumble. I pull on my robe and stagger outside. The woodpecker is hanging on to the vinyl shutter for all he is worth and begins again. Hey! I yell at him. He stops and looks around at me. I shake the suet feeder so he will see that it is full. He flies to the suet holder as I go back inside. I crawl into bed and snuggle up to my husband. BAP! BAP! BAPBAPBAPBAP! We move into the guest bedroom where it is quieter.

woodpecker restarts –
sarcastic percussion drums again –
no sleep this Sunday




Haiku 1/19/19

For Magaly’s prompt at Real Toads ,  poem in the manner of Mary Oliver. We lost a great poet and a better person

Haiku 1/19/19

icy scabbards hang
from the forsythia bush –
wintry arctic blooms

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