Best Haibun Poems
Blindfolded, he takes me from the car through the humid air of August. He holds my hand, and then surrounds me with his arms, when small obstacles appear. He brushes the hair from my forehead, gentling me like a shy colt. The silk rectangular scarf, I had folded and tied about my breasts clings to me. My cutoffs ride up further exciting me, as he lifts me onto a wall. Shushing me, he says. “Sit still, honey.” I have no idea where we are but, his voice and footsteps have a slight echo.
the wail
of a harmonica:
moonlight serenade
Vibrations tingle across my skin, raising the down on my arms. A bead of sweat mixes with baby lotion and follows a shiver down, from cleavage to navel. Seconds become minutes, as the song caresses me. Oh, how I love him, this long tall drink of water with his huge hands and slow drawl. As the last note hangs in echo, I hear him approach. He lifts me high and traces the droplet down to the top of my hip-huggers with his tongue. I am still blindfolded when he places me on the ground. I feel his breathe upon my mouth. The tip of his tongue plays across my teeth. Ah, I remember him, his face, his hands, his taste, and that night at the empty skating rink…but, sadly, not his name.
the scarf
falls from my hands:
the drawer closes
First Published by Contemporary Haibun On-line Winter of 2013
Where the sound of the wind whistled through the cracks in the walls and the door-sills where pots collected rain beneath a leaky roof where some drops ping-ponged on the empty soup cans resting on the kitchen counter as Autumn turned to Winter seen through white ferns painted by Jack Frost during the night on the window panes where beneath, snow fell through the cracks in the walls and lay glistening on the coat the little girl slept beneath on a cot in a house that even the coal collected from the train-tracks burning in the stove couldn't warm but could leave a trail of black soot on the wall behind the stovepipe in the place the little girl lived and called home for awhile, until the next move, and the next move, and next move, to places much the same, that she also called home, where a broken turquoise robin's egg (in a glass jar), tagged along, forever bringing beauty and joy to the little girls life.
grass and mud a nest
from such humble beginnings
yet the robin flies
____________________________________________________________
The adoring crowd here at Red Rocks amphitheatre awaits. Tonight, like every night, I will go out there and give them my best. They will show their love by means of applause and whistles. When I am on the stage it's like being on top of the world. The adrenalin rushing through my veins gives me a high that is hard to explain. I am invincible, indestructible, free.
What the fans don't know is how terribly lonely I am. Each night, after the performance, I go back to my hotel room and try to drink the emptiness away. Food has become a loathsome thing to me. I starve myself to give them the look they crave, the stick-thin waif living the rock star life. I die a little after each show. How I abhor this life. And yet the fame addiction is too strong. I hate it and desire it all at once. To become comfortably numb before I enter dream world is the best I can hope for.
Well, I've just received my cue. Time to give them what they want. If only they could understand that what I really need is someone to hold my hand, to tell me everything will be okay, that I am loved whether I perform or not, that I am a good person, that I have worth just as I am. But for tonight, the show must go on. I am a puppet on a string. And they, the puppeteers.
playing the fame game
standing on top of the world
empty soulless life
"Fame has a tendency to destroy otherwise good people" - Me
I s l i p p e d on a teardrop and landed in her arms. She never knew how much I needed her. I s l i p p e d in a puddle and I died in her soul. She never knew how much I needed her. Between yesterday’s old coffee and today's bright doom I broke in half. My heart slipped away into the hell of her death and my mind created LOST memories. So many moments of despair she held, and so many times of loneliness I lived. Beneath the darkness of the moon I drowned in a river created from her pain. It engulfed me into oblivion and I shall never be the same again. Sisters need each other and I needed her. Life seems over and death seems so FINAL.
teardrops in her arms-
woe brings rivers of d r o w n i n g
DEATH by suicide
I s l i p p e d on a teardrop and landed in her misery. She never knew how much I loved her. I s l i p p e d in a puddle and I died in her heart. She never knew how much I loved her. After the downpour of anguish I fell asleep. Nightmares of our final hug GOODBYE. If only I had held on longer maybe she would have felt more love from me. Maybe enough love to keep her alive. For she never realized how much her pain caused me heartache. She bled in sadness and I bleed in regret. No time to heal because healing is no more. Life seems dark and death seems so BLEAK.
one final goodbye-
not enough pure love from me
two dead souls bleeding
I s l i p p e d on a teardrop and landed in her remorse. She never knew how much I longed for her. I s l i p p e d in a puddle and I died in her essence. She never knew how much I longed for her. Before she was born she was already gone. A lifetime of sorrow and feeling different. It was hard for her to be a lesbian. Too hard. RIDICULED and damaged beyond repair. No more light at the end of her tunnel and the lessening of sunshine during her days. It’s depressing to think about what she felt her final moments of life. Her goodbye letter was awful. Full of pain and too much grief for me to read. I keep it in a journal tucked gently away. One day I will pull it out and read it again. Life seems wrong and death seems so BLACK.
suffered from regret-
too flawed and b r o k e n to heal
sister’s forever
~She s l i p p e d on a teardrop and landed in her grave~
Date Written: June 21, 2016
It's quiet here - quiet in a way that catches me off guard. The tranquility is almost tangible, something I can touch and hold and wrap around myself. I can hear the pulse of faraway waves, the faint hum of the wind, the nonsensical call of distant seagulls. I can hear my own heartbeat, pounding along with the waves.
As I kick off my sandals, my spirit steps out of my body, leaving behind the material baggage of city life. The sand is soggy beneath my feet and I know my footprints will disappear when the sea rises, as if I were never here at all.
It's low tide, that magical time when the sea recedes to reveal the ocean floor. Grooves of sand catch pockets of water that are half-buried mirrors, reflecting pale blue sky and slices of violet sunlight that glitter like chipped diamond.
a vocal seagull
descends toward liquid skies –
reflections ripple
At low tide, a second beach emerges, stretching all the way across the bay to the opposite shore. I walk slowly, tasting salt on the breeze as it runs invisible fingers through my hair. Strands sweep across my face, catching in my eyelashes before fluttering free once more.
The beach is a dream catcher, snagging small treasures when the sea withdraws. And I am a child again, fascinated by the hermit crab retreating into his shell as I approach. I spot the dimpled surface of an urchin’s shell peeking out from wrinkled sand. Other shells are scattered across the beach, some upside down, exposing smooth, pearly souls.
a tiny starfish
drifts beneath placid water –
lost constellation
When I find a sand dollar, my breath catches. It’s perfectly whole, with smooth, rounded edges and clean, ivory skin. It’s heavy and light all at once, the flawless design at its center subtle and brilliant, like a delicate floral tattoo. How many hours had I spent here as a child, searching for this transitory coin?
My eyes fill with unexpected tears as my vision wavers behind distorted pools of grief. I’m half-blind until I blink, releasing salty rivers down my cheeks. Even then, my sight is murky.
My tears taste like the ocean and I think, suddenly: Whose tears fill the sea?
Written: November 4, 2015
For Charlotte's "Creative Haibuns" Contest
In the recollections of my journey thus far, the tattered pages of my life flutter
in my mind. Like snapshots of times and places in black and white and color.
Haunting faces and glimpses of places. Sad narratives come to mind along with
stories and the history of family. Happiness entwined with sadness is all mine.
I often open the rusty old gate and travel a winding path to a place of weeping.
And I stand trembling with the wind in my hair . . .
the wind takes my hair
tangled branches creak and groan
whispering my name
And the tattered pages flutter. I find myself in a church, ornately beautiful.
I am a little girl praying on my knees. The hum of a thousand candles flicker.
Then I am holding my fathers hand as we stroll a lush green park. We laugh
as we walk along, just me and my father. We are going to feed the swans,
oh the beautiful floating white swans of my memory . . .
crystal clear water
the swans silently drifting
they come to greet us
Like wings whirling the pages move. I am me just a few weeks ago. I
hold a single red rose and place it at his headstone. I trace the words with
my finger. Baby, son of . . . he never got to see the sky. I never got to hold
him in my arms. I must turn this page for it is ripping out my heart and soul.
He the family secret not adopted but dead . . .
and gentle rain falls
on a bright red rose bleeding
clouds darken the sky
___________________________
July 11, 2015
Poetry/Haibun/Tattered Pages
Copyright Protected, ID 07-688-244-11
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
For the Premier contest, Haibun,
sponsor, scott thiryseven, Judged 2015
Third Place
Submitted to the Standard contest, Completely Your Choice (43)
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged, 01/17/2021
Tenth Place
I'd married at 21 and moved overseas with my husband's work, so it had been many years since I had visited my gran at Rose Cottage. I was taken by surprise when I received a letter from her solicitor informing me of my inheritance. Her cottage had been vacated when she went into a care home, and sadly she passed away a few years later. Gran had been widowed at an early age so I’d never met grandpa. I was her only grandchild and had such fond memories of spending summer holidays with her.
ripe red strawberries
boiling in the copper pan
I label jam jars
When I pulled into the driveway I was shocked to see how dilapidated the cottage was. Green shutters were hanging off their hinges and paint was peeling from the window frames. I recalled the perfectly manicured lawns and cottage garden flowers which were gran’s pride and joy, now a forest of dandelions sprouted from the lawn and brambles snaked their way through the honeysuckle arch way. I picked my way through the vegetation which was covering the moss covered path and turned the key in the lock; the heavy oak door creaked like my arthritic joints. Gran’s cosy cottage had always been spick and span, but now every surface was covered with a layer of thick grey dust and lacy cobwebs hung from the black beams on all the ceilings. As I wandered through the empty rooms my footsteps echoed on the old pine floorboards which were littered with strips of wallpaper falling from the damp walls. My heart sank when I saw how much work was needed to restore and modernise the old stone cottage, but with time and effort and help from my family I’m determined to bring it back to its former glory
neglected cottage
in need of renovation
rambling roses bloom
Fiction poem for Thesaurus - Abandon or Abandoned Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart
POEM AWARDED POEM OF THE DAY
06/14/20
Running through the Black Forest of no tomorrows, my heart beats at warp speed as the hideous howls draw nearer. My thoughts briefly digress to the world I knew before. I had no time for God or religion. My only goals in life were self-centered and ambition oriented. O how I long to return to my yesterdays! I would change my ways and repent. This beast will surely end my life of todays and cast me into an abyss of eternal darkness and oblivion. Instinctively, I get down on my knees and pray, but alas, 'tis too late, too late. My executioner has come upon me. I bow my head and willingly submit to the inevitable.
Blood red moon tonight
Starry skies have disappeared
Apocalypse now
This oversized wooden chair feels oddly comfortable as we snuggle up on the raised deck of our cabin at the summit of an anonymous mountain here in Luray. No need for conversation. The tree frogs and crickets understand. They sing a superlative song of love as we, their willing and captive audience, take it all in through the senses.
The clock rewinds as our carnal instincts cause our blood to rise in temperature. We are young once more, and in a few moments will retire to our rented room to enjoy each other as though it was the first time all over again.
Afterward, at the midnight hour and under a violet moon surrounded by a canopy of a billion stars, I will recite love poetry to the one I adore. Love lives here, in this mountain, in all its glorious splendor. The tree frogs and crickets understand.
sweet sounds of summer
a maiden and her lover
intimate moments
I set up an easel in the shade of my beach umbrella. Wanting to paint by the morning light, I dabbed colors onto the palette...sea foam green, azure, titanium white, and ochre.
With wetted brush in hand,
I looked out, ready to begin.
But there upon the golden sand,
Ran my tomboy daughter, Quin.
An only child, Quin had long ago found ways to amuse herself. Since the age of three she'd insisted on brushing her own hair into a ponytail, Now, at seven, she hadn't yet gotten the hang of it, but fly-a-way hair becomes my little tomboy. I smiled when I realized how much like Quin I was as a child. I watched as she chased gulls and sandpipers, clapping her hands to keep them flying ahead of her running steps. A child of nature, she sees beauty in everything. She stopped and shielded her eyes against the rising sun with her hands. She watched the sandpipers land further up the beach then walked back to me.
"Mommy, do you think the birds
are afraid of me when I give chase?"
She waits to hear comforting words.
I smile, looking at her worried face.
"Quin, my darling, if you think they are afraid, find something else
to do that won't scare them away." She picked up her blue denim bag and skipped along the shore looking for starfish and sand dollars. I painted the scene I wanted to capture, but Quin became the focal point of my canvas. I used the green, blue, white, and ochre to paint what nature provided, but I used a shade called peony for the cheeks of my tomboy daughter.
sandpipers and gulls
Quin still loves making them fly
with paint on canvas
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.
"Sweet child in time,
you'll see the line
the line that's drawn between
good and bad"
Having cold sweats again in this godforsaken ninety degree heat. Shivering uncontrollably. God, what I'd do for a warm comforter right now. Zombies all around me mumbling incoherent poetry no one understands or even cares to hear. Young people half my age or less without souls, without heart, without vision.
Nam 1968. The nightmares won't stop even now, fifty-six years later. Nineteen years old. Just a kid. What did I know about good and bad, right from wrong? I did what I was told just like everyone else. When I was young, I used to dream of Eden.
"See the blind man
shooting at the world
bullets flying
taking toll"
Deep in the jungle, trying to rest but sleep is elusive. Out of the corner of my eye I espy a young child, a girl I think. Or is it just a dream? She looks ragged, hungry, sad. Tears are streaming down her cheeks as she stumbles through the brush toward us. The air is suffocating, a train is rolling through my head when suddenly I hear a blast from an M16. Sarge yells "Everyone down!" Then an explosion, but this time I can't hear a thing, just debris flying everywhere. And then the child is no more. When I open my eyes, a tiny hand lay two feet away. So delicate, so precious. What the hell am I doing here?
"You'd better close your eyes
bow your head
wait for the ricochet"
Kensington avenue is hell in the real world. It is here I exist and it is here I will die, homeless, sick and alone. The needle is my one last and true friend, for when I am high I am free. It is then that the dreams of Eden reappear, if but for a moment. I am seventy-five years old now, but I never really got to grow up. For you see, back there, in '68, I was just a child in time.
dreams are illusions
white lady offers solace
forgiveness denied
*Kensington Ave, Philadelphia PA
**Song lyrics from Child in Time by Deep Purple
My head feels like it's being squeezed in a vise. Eardrums must have blown out from the explosion since I hear absolutely nothing, not even my own breath. Slowly rising to my feet I survey the damage. Left arm gone from the elbow down. Flesh hangs from my right forearm exposing bone and sinew. I don't even want to know what my face looks like but my cheeks are burning white hot.
Suddenly, I am keenly aware of the immediate surroundings. The twenty story office building I call my second home is utterly destroyed. Smoke and haze are everywhere. An acrid odor fills my nostrils with each breath. Scanning the vicinity I see body parts strewn about. The urge to vomit overwhelms me. Afterward, I begin to shake and sob uncontrollably. My God, why?
Home is five blocks away. My wife, my daughter are they alive? No idea how many bombs were dropped. Must get home. Each step brings excruciating pain, but the adrenalin pulsing through my veins impels me forward. Finally reaching my neighborhood, it quickly becomes evident that it too was targeted. Rubble and debris surrounds me. In the distance, what was my house, leveled to the ground. The cries, the screams of others sifting through the debris make me question my sanity did my hearing return or are the screams in my head?
Reality sets in coldly as I discover the bodies of my family, partially buried under the rubble. I have no more tears in this moment. Instead, my mind drifts back to former days happy times. Myself, Najwa and baby, lying in our back yard on a comfy blanket, staring up at the stars, watching the fireflies softly flicker in a dreamy, summer night sky. We had peace then. Now there is nothing but bitterness and hatred in my heart. I gaze at the sky, now black as sin. All the stars are there. But the fireflies they're gone. I can't help but wonder, what will become of me?
Flicker flicker fly
Stars above to light the sky
Angels weep goodbye
I had a dream...
I am sleeping on a cloud. Upon awakening, I gaze at planet earth below. From my vantage point I can see the globe in its entirety. Something has changed. Before falling asleep I was watching the news. It spoke of war, inflation, hatred and prejudice. There was talk of deforestation, desertification, plastic pollution and radiation poisoning. People were fighting, they were killing. Spilled blood was everywhere, staining the beauteous land.
But the world I am seeing now is at peace. The lion sleeps with the lamb. People from all cultures, nations and languages are living in harmony, a true rainbow of mankind. The air is sweet, the waters pure and clear as crystal. Instinctively, I get down on my knees and pray to the God of heaven, as tears of confusion and joy stream down my face. A soft, low voice from above calls to me: "My son, no need for tears any longer. Look! I have made all things new." It is only then I understand, this is no dream after all. I am in paradise!
promise of ages
a world in transformation
all living the dream
Requiem for Henry and Sylvia
The papers arrived today. I gaze out the window of our posh villa and witness yet another spectacular Tuscan sunset. To my delight, a red-billed leiothrix is flitting about the umbrella tree, as if searching for its lost mate. I rise, slip on my Bottega Venetas and pour myself another cup of Danesi Italian coffee.
Memories flood my brain without my consent. There were happy times spent at the beach, endlessly searching for the prettiest or most unique seashells. Were they really good times? Maybe. It's all a blur now.
The large envelope lay on the expertly crafted Bocote table her artisan father made for us as a wedding gift. Rusty, our faithful corgi, rests at my feet. But he's not asleep. He's glaring at me with eyes of disdain, as if it was my fault she left.
I ask Alexa to play Handel's Messiah, then slowly open the drawer to finish the task at hand. There is just one problem. Where did I put that damn Montblanc Royal pen?
musing on what was
under a Tuscan sunset
coffee tastes bitter