“Whether it’s the God of War or the Red Planet, write your haibun that alludes to Mars. Remember, a haibun is combination of prose and haiku. For the purposes of this prompt, the prose may be non-fiction or speculative. The haiku, while not needing to be in the 5-7-5 syllabic format, must include a kigo (season word) and present a complement of seemingly divergent images, such that there is a moment of insight.”
Mars and Venus
Mars rises in the eastern sky this morning. Twinkling dimly as the blues and violets of night give way to the dazzling orange crimson of dawn. A fleeting flirtatious wink in the sky, passionate promises. Venus rises tonight, bright and glowing reaching her climax. Mars draws near like a lover hoping to steal kisses in the shadows. Impassioned lovers, always together, eternally apart. For a moment they can almost touch, but not. As Mars retreats and Venus twinkles with unshed tears in the western sky, I sigh.
Cartwheeling through time Mars and Venus wink, flirting Winter cold lips kiss
Frank J. Tassone is hosting over at dverse poets pub for Haibun Monday and Frank bids us consider gratitude.
“This week, let us consider gratitude: Its essence, those reasons we have for feeling it, and what our lives—and our world—may look like if we live it.”
With so many blessings, so much gratitude, where do we start?
I watch the snow falling outside the window, covering the landscape in fluffy down. A winter wonderland just beyond the glass, there for my entertainment while I sit warm and snug in my home. A young buck turns his head to look through my window and I am grateful for the beauty of the moment.
The news is filled with horror and grief. Wasted lives and sorrow so profound I wonder how this world continues to carry the burden of so much pain. Forests burned to cinders, villages reduced to rubble by the vagaries of war. The homeless woman freezes to death on a temple doorstep. I am shocked, appalled, and grateful that my family is warm and fed.
So many blessings of a joyful life. The times when illness washes over me like a wave, crashing at my heart, engulfing my soul. Then too, I am grateful. Like the sword, I am grateful for the anvil of life, and the hammer of disease that has forged me into the woman I am right now. And when my life is over I know I’ll look back and relish every laugh, every tear and I’ll be grateful for every moment.
Let it be said that she left the game well played with gratitude of heart
word count 214
Til next time ~JPP
“If the only prayer you ever said was ‘thank you’ that would be enough” ~ Meister Eckhart
Frank J. Tassone is hosting for Haibun Monday at dVerse Poets Pub and he asks us to consider “indigenous.” Since my grandmother was a Native American and indigenous person, my perception may be a little different than others. Always remember that it is never my intention to offend or to belittle the suffering Native Americans endured.
Great Spirit’s Headress
Listen, child listen. Grandmother takes my hand and leads me through the Fall leaves. They crunch under my small feet, making tiny sounds. The colors surround us. She calls it the Great Spirit’s Headress. Maple and ash, sourwood, aspen and sweetgum all vie for title of the most beautiful.
Long ago she left the lands of her people, like the Fall leaves, not departing in despair but in love. Making way for the quiet of Winter and the bloom of Spring, she forged a new life, a new way. Old hatreds were left behind, forgotten, falling like the changing leaves rustling in the wind.
Grandmother’s way was always clear, the way of love the way of the trees
Kim is hosting Haibun Monday over at dVerse poets this week and bids us:
“write about an encounter with an insect: it can be a beautiful or a scary experience, one that enlightened or surprised you; it can be about an ordinary or an unusual insect. Aim to write no more than three tight paragraphs about your encounter with an insect, followed by a traditional haiku that includes reference to the season.”
Canyon Walls and Dragonflies
Grey rocks stand in stark juxtaposition to the red sandstone walls of the canyon. The brutal heat of the desert sun retreats as early sunlight casts it’s subtle glow. A pretty little river plays it’s gentle song. Not so long ago, rampaging fury carved this canyon with boulders and floods. But for now, all is at peace.
A tiny dragonfly alights on a slender blade before my eyes, fanning her delicate wings in the cool morning air. And all at once, I see. I see the magic of the canyon. Why it is called Zion, sanctuary, sacred ground. I see the magic of the land and water. I see the insect transform into a delicate winged fairy bidding me come, look deeper, see.
Summer’s child pauses a slender reed bends beneath her glorious wings
There is a Chinese Parasol tree in Kyoto, Japan. Grown from the seeds of the hibakujumoku, the trees that survived Hiroshima. It is a humbling reminder that the power of man to do evil cannot defeat the power of nature to heal and survive. For dVerse Poets Haibun Monday.
A Phoenix in Kyoto – Haibun Monday
Tall and green she shares her shade. Born of the hibakujumoku, survivor of horror and black rain. So much death surrounded her as buildings crashed and humans burned and life evaporatated. Yet, she survives. As the Phoenix rises from the ashes, and the moon pulls in on herself nature waxes full once more in the steady march of time. Her seeds came to this place where she stands in quiet testimony, reminding all that the stupidity of man is no match for the beauty of nature.
no atrocity cancels blessings of nature greening comes again
The buildings tower above the old farm lands, dull prisons of forgotten dreams. Dreams we once fought for, dreams we once died for lie neglected and abandoned like the concrete pillars on which the city stands.
Here on the hill, overlooking it all, I see the end of the green. The wall lies behind me, a memorial to long forgotten soldiers. Where is the memorial to the rest of us? Those left behind with the great holes in our lives, left to stumble blindly through the tragedy of loss, sacrificed to the naked stupidity of war.
A dark empty wall robbed of joyful memory only names remain