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

 

Garden of White Flowers

The Notes:  A triple Cherita. A cherita tells a story and is written thusly: one line, then two lines, then three lines for a total of six lines. There is no line length, no rhyme, no syllable requirement. This first Cherita is the beginning of a series of poems in my Garden of White Flower Series.  This first section is dedicated to the memory of my dear friend Jeff, a sweet and gentle soul. He committed suicide this past June 18, 2018.  I miss him dreadfully.  I seem to be on a roll here with poems about suicide. I am working on clearing my system of three deaths this past June: my mother and two friends by suicide, all within two weeks of each other.

Garden of White Flowers
“If you are not too long, I will wait here for you, all of my life.” Oscar Wilde

I. Jeff
He loved white flowers in his garden especially bathed in moonlight.

He began his white garden when he interred the ashes of the love of his life,
His lover who died from AIDS thirty five years ago and cremated.

He dug the corner of his yard by hand putting in much sweat equity.
He planted a scented white rose that climbed and then iris bulbs,
Paperwhite narcissus, and wisteria, in the corner with the magnolia tree.

He watered the flowers with his tears and sweat.

Next into the garden he buried his precious Cocker, Duncan –
Rescued from a dog hoarder, abused and starved.

He sat out here often talking to Gabe and Duncan.
He planted more white flowers to breathe their life into him,
He whose loves had all died leaving him alone.

He was sitting in his white garden in the moonlight

When he decided there were enough white lowers, enough memories.
He stroked the petals of the white iris and the white rose

Then went into the house on that beautiful June night.
The next morning he took his cat to the vet to board her for a few days.
He returned home and hung himself, the scents of his garden wafting through the windows.

Painted in Tones of Argent

For the weekly 55.  When I wrote this, my mother was dying. She has since died.

Painted in Tones of Argent
My backyard sleeps under
the full moon like a drowned Atlantis.
I sit on my back steps inhaling
the scents of honeysuckle and
a whiff of pot from my neighbors’-
A faint scent of petrichor:
the storm breaks
weeping on the trees.
My mother is dying.

A Year

A quadrille for Kim’s prompt using the word cycle.  What is a quadrille?  It is a poem of exactly 44 words using the prompted word.  The title is not included in the word count. Exacty a year ago today, my mother died.

A Year
The year cycles through its paces
Summer, fall, winter, spring.
A full year has passed since you died.
Today dawns as it did last year –
warm and sunny,
deceptive in its kindness.
I sit on the back porch
listening to birds singing your name.

mama as a baby

Peach Cobbler

Today for the Quadrille over at dVerse Poets. De has given us the word “cobble”.  Note about cobblestones.  As a retired engineer, I amass all sorts of useless information.  Most of the “cobblestones” after the 1860’s are actually limestone setts cut into the shape of a brickbat and set into place on sand. Cobbles are round flat stones brought here millenia ago by the glaciers.  They are no primarily used  to construct buildings.


Peach Cobbler

Making peach cobbler
with icecream on the side
always reminds me of my long dead
Father – the ripe peaches, the spices.
Hello Papa I say to it
when I pull it from the oven.
Such a sunny fruit cobbler always
makes my eyes rain.

copyright kanzensakura peaches at the farmer’s market

 

Nap

For Hedge’s 55. For those of you who have never heard or, never listened to a cardinal, I am including the music they make.  This is also posted for Poets United Poetry Pantry.  Happy Mothers Day to you all. If your mother is still alive, let her know how much you love her. My mother died last June. I miss her every day.

Nap
Ninety-three degrees at noon.
The scent of white clover is heavy.
Sitting in the shade on my back porch –
A cardinal on top of the birdhouse –
spot of blood against the greenyellowblue
Chirpchirpchirp.
The sound follows me down into my dreams –
Chripchirpchirp
Like a tiny temple bell – but
I can’t find my way back home

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