Best Haibun Poems
Below are the all-time best Haibun poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of Haibun poems written by PoetrySoup members
View ALL
Haibun
Poems
Search for Haibun poems, articles about Haibun poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Haibun poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.
Definition & Discussion of Haibun Poems
Read Haibun Poems
See also:
Best Famous Poems
|
Details |
Haibun
Poem
Fireflies
It's so dark outside, my eyes can't distinguish where sand meets water. Somehow, dusk has come and gone, plunging the evening into darkness.
But even as my eyes yield to this opaque absence of light, my other senses heighten. I can hear the crash of waves as they abuse the shoreline, sending foaming water up the beach in icy streams. I'm lulled by the sound of polished pebbles colliding like marbles as they recede with the waves. I can feel the sea's cool mist against my face, taste its salt on my lips. The scent of seaweed drifts on the breeze in gentle wafts - and then, slowly, the faintest whiff of smoke.
I glance over my shoulder, where a tiny dot of light penetrates the darkness. It's a beacon on this cool night, and I walk slowly toward it, digging my toes into the soft sand with each step.
dim moonlight
peeks through thinning clouds--
fire crackles
He's still there, stoking the fire, feeding the flames until the heat is tangible. The air wavers between us like a veil - a line I want to cross. He stirs up clouds of smoke, stirring feelings within me as I watch his busy hands. I wait patiently for him to notice my approach, and when he does, my breath catches.
rainbow flames
burst from seasoned maple--
blue eyes sparkle
I watch golden light flicker across his skin, softening the lines of his face. He abandons his task, moving around the fire until he stands before me, smiling as if he knows my heart is thundering in my chest.
He waits for a painstaking moment to pass. Then he kisses me with toasted marshmallow lips, pulling me down into his lap to watch the sparks rise like fireflies into the breathless night.
|
Details |
Haibun
Poem
Kindred Spirits
~(tanka haibun)~
Awakened from my walking reverie by movement ahead, I spy a Red-Tailed Hawk perched upon the wrought-iron railing of the flood-wall. The hawk is regal, stoic beauty. I stop walking in hopes of urging the bird of prey to stay its perch. It does, filling me with a sense of relief. I wonder why it let me get so close; if it was my calm, thoughts-up-in-the-clouds, meditative stroll that somehow rendered my thoughts and steps silent enough to catch the bird unawares. We eye each other, a bitter gust of mid-winter wind blows against my face; ruffles the back-feathers of the hawk. I am overwhelmed by a sensation how the two of us know exactly what we are, who we are, what we are supposed to be doing overall, but we are presently caught in a moment of unknowns, letting these unknowns erase the lines that keep us separate -- beast from human.
I take a step closer, causing the hawk to finally alight, and I am struck by its vibrant feathers adding a dash of colour to the surrounding monochromatic grays.
The hawk flies only a short distance ahead before landing on the railing again, so we re-enact the scene of this play. I come closer, closer, closer, until the hawk lifts up, flies a bit further along the river-walk, before landing again, until eventually it probably decides, that indeed, this human is going to traverse the entire path, for the hawk flies up into trees located further ahead. As I walk past the trees, the hawk launches out of an evergreen, with twigs in its talons. The bird flies over the river; a river made tumultuous by ice-melt.
in Winter's gray light
a Red-Tailed Hawk paints the sky
with its feathers,
my soul lifts, follows the bird
over an ice-gorged river
The hawk lands on the base of a church steeple, and disappears behind an ornately carved corner. It appears as if the steeple is attempting to pierce the snow-clouds with its tip, trying to tear gashes in the sky, until spring blue bleeds into gray. On this Tuesday afternoon, does the church seem personified because it is devoid of Sunday parishioners milling in and out of its thick wooden doors? No matter how hard the steeple tries to break-apart the clouds, the grand sky dwarfs the church, causing it to look like a toy model. The church fluctuates between looking like a miniature-scale model, and an architectural feat.
with defiance
the steeple pierces clouds
looming overhead -
the snow-laden clouds
make the church appear small
Passing the church, I find it ironic how today the church is empty inside, yet on its steeple and roof-lines, countless animals are nesting, making this House of God their sanctuary. Slowly making my way home, I ponder about the hawk, how it is not only a predator amongst prey, but a predator amongst predators -- it flies around in plain sight, yet also hides right in the middle of the city. Coming up to the path leading to the back-door of my home, I scan a small trail of footprints in the snow. The footprints vary, but all are familiar to me.
It is at precisely this moment that I fully acknowledge the Red-Tailed Hawk and I to be kindred spirits; how similar we really are.
the path leading home
is a winding snowy trail
of few footprints,
for only my loved ones know
where I truly live
.
|
Details |
Haibun
Poem
Comrades in Arms
In the refrigerated coldness of a courtroom sitting with my truest friend near me, boxed in by bureaucracy who cared not for the long, lingering years of marital decline. The unyielding forms of squares and rectangles, benched, tabled and chaired the end of a lifetime of intercourse. Only one friend had come to my Golgotha, my place of skulls.
a downcast woman
sat before a solemn judge--
the gravel fell
Sedated with mother’s little helpers, we sat, she and I attempting, through chemistry and kindness, to bar the pain of memory, no sour wine laced with myrrh for me. The Judge seeing no sense in the dissolution of a union three decades in the baking, washed his hands of us, my husband and I, like Pilate. As the crown of thorns had encircled the pate of HE, so had the bands of marriage encased us, frozen, dead, in the honey colored amber .. of we.
|
Details |
Haibun
Poem
with a kiss
with a kiss
he tasted the salt
of her tears -
guilt washed over him
at feeling spring in his veins
This was the wrong place and moment
to have such strong lust and longing.
in his periphery,
her oniisan's sen-nin-bari
hung like a limp eel from her pocket
He was filled with the shame of it all.
To hell with this sacred, imperial war.
Two years too young to serve in the munitions factories,
many years too young to join in the fray,
he spent his time
amongst women, old men,
and the dreaded kempeitai.
His thoughts felt as those of a hikokumin.
He loved his ojiichan and obaachan,
who filled in for the roles of okasan,
and an otosan whom he hadn't heard from,
since the infantryman had stormed Rangoon, four months prior.
But spending so much time around mainly women and elderly folk
can become quite depressing for a man-boy.
Juzo and Aki slipped past a crowd of women
pushing against a rations cart,
clawing pathetically for scraps of rice, powdered eggs and salted fish.
This is what Nippon had been reduced to.
The pit in his stomach widened at the thought of dishes
he used to take for granted.
What he would do for some sukiyaki, mochi,
or even a slice of kasutera.
Walking through the streets hand-in-hand,
Aki silent,
he felt the obake of shopkeepers
tending store behind boarded-up windows.
The entire city was brimming with negative thoughts,
probably partly due to the banning of the Joya-no-Kane -
what could purge the ill thoughts, now?
It felt like a pressure cooker of indecency,
steaming over into the gutters,
until even the gutters flooded,
spilling filth into the most private corners of kitchens and bedrooms.
~*~
Late at night,
when the blessing of sleep crept in,
he dreamt of food,
Joya-no-Kane,
and of Aki finally breaching his shyness,
by taking the lead....
_______________
*Glossary(in order of appearance)
oniisan - brother
sen-nin-bari - stitched, woven cloth belt used as a talisman of protection by soldiers
kempeitai - military police
hikokumin - traitor
ojiichan - grandfather
obaachan - grandmother
okasan - mother
otosan - father
sukiyaki - sweet rice wine, cabbage, noodles, carrots, tender chicken
mochi - sticky rice with red bean in centre
kasutera - sponge cake
obake - ghosts
Joya-no-Kane - in Buddhist temples, gongs are hit 108 times with a log,
to help purge 108 indecent thoughts.
February 28th, 2012
|
Details |
Haibun
Poem
Nana's Garden
You won't find a yard like this anymore. You'd think it would seem smaller now that I'm an adult, but it doesn't. It's still enormous, stretching far beyond the house like a grassy sea. The hills roll like the tide, dotted with patches of melting snow that remind me of cresting waves. All around me, the gardens wake from a wintry slumber.
tiny buds
cling to naked branches--
a robin sings
Time stands still here in Nana's garden; the ghosts of childhood haunt every inch of the yard. There's my brother, climbing the ancient apple tree, throwing crab apples at my sister as she plucks daisies. Even as she dodges apples, she plucks away - asking no one in particular if she's loved or not, leaving a trail of petals in her wake. And there I am in my grass-stained skirt, twirling and twirling, falling dizzily to the ground, oblivious to my sister's shrieks of protest and my brother's triumphant laugh.
I shake my head and the vision clears. Now the garden is empty - still overflowing with trees and shrubs and flowers, but lacking in laughter, mischief, and innocence. Innocence has been replaced by wistfulness.
two robins
glide across the sky--
a door creaks
"Tea's ready, dear."
I glance over my shoulder at Nana. She stands on the back porch wearing her favourite apron and my favourite smile. Like her garden, she hasn't changed. A few more silver strands in her hair, a few more lines around her eyes - but she is still the same woman who took care of us, tending to us just as she tended to her gardens. She smiles at me now, as if she knows that garden has cast a spell over me.
With another glance at the apple tree, I follow Nana inside the house - and I swear I can hear echoes of laughter behind me.
|
Details |
Haibun
Poem
School's Out
Trying to recapture the joy of those winter days is difficult. School cancelled. The sun shining through the sheer white curtains into an all too girlie room, the sound of the tea kettle whistling, the ice cold feeling of oak boards on bare feet between braided rugs, as I ran to the kitchen. The transistor radio still babbling school closings as the snow sifted down.
bright sun
lends a sparkle to snowflakes –
the plow passes
Quick phone calls punctuated with giggles rouse the gaggle of neighborhood girls. White skates in hand, I am out the door and rushing toward the swampy area behind the neighbor’s house. Rubber boots crunching through the crust beneath the powdery fluff. At the edge of the watery wood I stand staring. Boys, I see the boys in there and they have their skates on already. Tommy skates toward me, Tommy Maloney, my crush.
his black waves
dusted with snow –
whoops of delight
A hummock of snow topped grass serves as my seat. I remove my boots from beneath the zip sides of my snow pants and start to try and lace my new white skates. Once done, I stand wobbling, weak-ankled. Tommy laughs as, knock-kneed, I attempt a glide toward him falling on my butt. Oh, how his eyes sparkled, an Irish rogue at twelve. Kneeling , Tommy began to re-lace my skates. I remember wishing, so much, he would kiss me.
|
Details |
Haibun
Poem
The warmer months
I always feel like a prisoner in the winter, banished from the outside by the jealous wind. As I get older, I continue to make peace with the cold, but I follow the spring. It is a different door, one covered with vines and stars, and to it I am drawn, as if to a beautiful girl.. no other days compare to her.
The flash of a disposable camera, clicked with young fingers, pink-polished nails. A yellow sun dress patterned with orange daisies. The basket on the bike is filled with stuff for lunch, sodas and sandwiches and things. Laughter resounds over the tops of trees as we careen, the children of May, across the sun-spotted road.
The compass points north
You know, this is Saturday
That means we go east
You yell to me that I run too fast, but all I hear is my heartbeat in my ears. I look back, you run faster. The evening begins to cast a spell in our town; the colors purple and orange appear like watercolor in the sky and we both stop to watch. Vapor trails crisscross above us, they're streaks across the fading day, pieces of the memories we've made.
Heat lightning at night
She's reading a magazine
Sarah's rare green eyes
To your door we go, but only you proceed. Your father doesn't trust me yet, but I tell you that I'll try harder. Maybe, one day, he'll give me a pat on the shoulder and a smile. It does hurt, I won't deny, to listen to the screen door wheeze shut and hear your bounding footsteps on the stairs. What comforts me is that I know tomorrow brings you around again, walking through a high archway, lovely enough to steal the sun's attention from the flowers.
These suburban dreams
The pink and yellow houses
Waiting with my thoughts
-For Debbie Guzzi's "Spring Haibun" contest
|
Details |
Haibun
Poem
Past reflections and New Beginnings
her brimming eyes..
shreds of a happy picture
in the icy lake
Each gust of the bone chilling wind, blows in fresh despair. Though seemingly brutal has a new lesson albeit a bit harsh, to teach, a new message to deliver. The lonely lady in a dark trench coat with frozen tears in her sea green eyes, casts her eyes on the bare fanged limbs of skeletal trees around. Through all the bleakness she feels a glimmer of hope shine as a silver lining in this cycle of nature.
Pondering over the human tendency to scratch up old wounds to keep them afresh and hold those daggers of the aching past, locking and unlocking them in the recesses of heart, to keep renewing the hurt. The flora around has shed the burdens of yester years, eagerly awaiting the blooms of a fresh spring. Clearly, it is the time to let go. To look forward to the bright horizons of the morrow, to cherish the first sprout of life rejuvenated. Let Go. Hope.
one last look..
the frigid waters ripple
her past reflections
Haibun
Yesha Shah
|
Details |
Haibun
Poem
THE FIRST OF APRIL
Thank you to one and all for your kind comments. I am so touched by your words and understanding.
As someone who has suffered loss, I feel it is best to remove this poem at this time, in consideration for a Souper and her family who have had their hearts broken.
When a child is lost, two things inflict pain more than anything else, one, hearing of another parent losing a child, second, seemily indifferent joy when you are in agony.
Rejoice with those who rejoice;
mourn with those who mourn.
Romans 12:15
|
Details |
Haibun
Poem
The Wisdom of the Breeze
I wanted to write of nature: the clouds, the birds, the gurgling creek. But the words never felt quite right. The trees were lush with their summer leaves, except I felt the description didn't do them justice. The grass was wet with fresh dew, the squirrels were prancing about... why couldn't I come up with something? Ink from my quill soon dried up and so I moved onto pencils. They were fine for awhile, but I kept breaking them out of frustration. 'Twas a poet that wanted so bad to curse the beautiful day for not giving him his desires. But at last the wise and ancient breeze came rolling in... with a little something different to say...
these pages were blown
into the sky of unknown -
I waved them goodbye
|
|
|
|