Blue and gold Sunday – haibun

public domain - View of the Church of Saint Paul and Asylum

public domain – View of the Church of Saint Paul and Asylum at Remy – Van Gogh

I am writing a haibun and being untraditional by ending the prose portion with a senryu rather than haiku. This haibun is in response to a painting by Van Gogh which Bjorn, hosting our Haibun Monday at d’Verse Poets, asked us to use as our prompt for our haibun – .http://dversepoets.com/2015/11/02/haibun-monday-3/  I am also posting on Poets United for their Poetry Pantry http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2015/11/poetry-pantry-275.html  (Sunday) Come and visit me at both locations and read outstanding poetry by outstanding poets!  Those of you who write prose and have not yet tried the Japanese poetry/prose form of haibun may be interested in trying your hand.  At d’Verse Poets, the link is good for a week to submit haibun.  Try it, you may like it!  Come visit and read if nothing else for excellent reading material.  http://dversepoets.com/2015/11/02/haibun-monday-3/

Blue and Gold Sunday
I was admitted to the Asylum at Saint Remy in August of 1889 because I had the poor taste and wicked disposition to allow my older brother to rape me several times a week after the family had retired for the evening. Even worse, after a few months, when enough had become too much, I stopped his attacks by taking a knife to him – a knife secreted from the kitchen and hidden under my pillow. What a mess! Blood spattered on the hand painted silk wall paper, the chaste white lace and linen of my bed and by a well-aimed and angry stroke, my brother became incapable of performing such an attack again. Running to find out what the screaming was all about, my parents, several servants, and my mama’s spinster sister, discovered my brother emasculated and slowly bleeding to death and me – covered with blood and voiceless. Since that night, I have not spoken and mostly spend my days staring inside myself at landscapes such as never existed on this earth. Our family doctor recommended the Asylum as a place far enough away from Paris for my parents to forget I existed. Our lawyer helped them silence the disgrace and make arrangements for my admittance. I would be surrounded by beautiful pastoral views and treated well by the good Sisters and the doctors.

And so here I am, sitting by the window of my small private room watching the morning sun gild the Sunday countryside, absorbed in the view of the Chapel. The sky is the unearthly blue of an alpine lake. Church bells begin to ring, their sound drifting over the unharvested wheat like gentle wood smoke. Last night, one of the attendants came to do his weekly visit. Klaus had become my brother in this quiet place. During a noisy outbreak at the end of the hall, I took my dinner knife, cleverly hidden up the sleeve of my kimono. I had patiently waited for such a happening. While everyone but lazy Klaus was occupied silencing the creator of the shrieks and mayhem, I took myself to the opposite end of the hall where he spent most of his time napping and smoking hand rolled cigarillos. He did not hear me as I stepped behind him and drew the knife across his throat. Stepping back quickly to avoid blood on myself, I dropped the knife and then returned to my room. I slept well. This morning, when the Sunday doctor asked me how I was doing, for the first time in four years, I spoke. I looked him in the eye and said, “I am feeling much better now” and smiled.

blue and gold Sunday –
madness departs to dissolve
into the blue sky.

MTB – Humor

Today, Victoria has given us the wonderful prompt of writing something humorous.  To be honest, I’ve not been in a humorous frame for a couple of months.  I hope one of these fit the bill.   http://dversepoets.com/2015/10/22/seriously-thats-funny-dverse-meeting-the-bar/

free public domain image

free public domain image

I.  (senryu)
sparrows skate on ice
gobbling seeds – cat sneaks, spies, stalks –
leaps, slips – birds snicker.

II. (Bussokusekika poetic form)
high up in my tree
playing the violin and
watching fall at play –
leaves swirl birds chirp creek gurgles –
I saw notes trying my best
squirrel yells at me – silence!

 

dVerse Poets #2 – Halloween: The Attic

This is for the Halloween Poetics on d’Verse Poets Pub.  I have submitted one already but couldn’t resist doing another. Here is the link for the fun at d’Verse:  http://dversepoets.com/2015/10/20/10958/

 

The attic in Bessie’s house was always cold. Even in July when all other attics in the world were housetop ovens, this one was cold.  Bessie was my father’s mother – Grandma Hayes.  She was a tiny, feisty wizened little woman and stronger than an ox.  Even at 80, working in the field, she left grown men behind in her dust.  And her attic was always always cold.  None of us liked going up there for anything.  We’d rock paper scissors and the loser had to go.  Slowly on the up trip, racing down the steps as if the devil were nipping at the heels.  Once, my cousin Tommy and I got into a fight; ugly fight rolling around in the red dirt – noses bleeding, tee shirts ripped.  I lost.

Grandma Hayes’ youngest grandchild died, died in that house one cold rainy Christmas.  One morning she was sniffing and sneezing and whiny – no one could touch her because she ached so badly.  The family doctor was called and came bringing into the small Christmas tree smelling room, the smell of rain and cold.  He said she had a cold and gave her baby aspirin and told her mother to give her another dose at bedtime.  In the morning, she lay still under the covers – cold and blue – her long curly red hair dank over the pillow.  Her sister in bed beside her ran screaming down the attic stairs, ‘”Sandra won’t wake up Sandra won’t wake up Sandra….”.  Up the stairs the adults ran.  Curled into herself, smaller than a terrier puppy, she lay making barely a dent under the quilts.  A few days later she was buried in the family cemetery.  Laid to rest in the red mud, the mud oozing down onto her casket.  The cause of death was an aspirin overdose.  No one knew she had eaten a bottle of the orange flavored baby aspirin for candy a few days before she died.

I lost the fight.  I had to go out of the blazing July heat up into that cold attic to fetch down a jar of watermelon rind pickle.  I stood before the door breathing fast and trying to calm myself.  I grasped the door knob and began the slow ascent of the narrow stairs.  Almost at the top, you could look through the railings and see the bed.  No, I said to myself. No.  I leaned my forehead against the rail and forced my eyes open.  NO NO NO.  Across the dusty pillow was the glint of long curly red hair, picking up the lone sun beam that had strayed through the tattered curtain.  I could not make myself go forward and I was afraid to turn my back.  I panted, almost faint with fear.  Not there not there not there.  I saw her small face.  And then, she opened her eyes.

Summer heat becomes
frost and fear – the scariest
ghost stories are real.

 

free public domain

free public domain

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