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Best Haibun Poems

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New Haibun Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Haibun poems are below this new poems list.

I Slipped On A Teardrop by Loo, Laura
Off In The Distance by Loo, Laura
Rain by Callus, Paul
Island of Fantasy by Loo, Laura
Prescription Drug Addiction by Wings, Broken
The Boogeyman Who Lived In my Closet by Wings, Broken
21st Century by Grenness , Julie
Cascade Adventures --- Pt 2 by Hicks, Timothy
Cascade Adventures --- Pt 1 by Hicks, Timothy
My Father by Wings, Broken

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The Best Haibun Poems

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Moonlight Serenade

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


Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015

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Sand Dollar Dreams

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


Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2015

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Honourable son

I gaze upon a painting from decades ago. My beloved son at a T-ball game.  How focused you are, while the other children were distracted.  The other parents always so rowdy, but I was happy just to watch you play.  Nobody expected the kids to make a catch, but you did and I was so proud.  I'm so honoured to have you as a son, the only one who has remained focused on his parents.

eyes like an eagle
gloves hunting the ball for prey
smile brighter than sun

I still remember the day you told me you were going to war. "Mum and dad don't cry, pray for me. I will be home soon" you said.  I was so scared for my beloved child. Whenever I looked at you all I saw was that infant from years ago. A child becomes an adult, but you were always a baby in my eyes. The days always seemed darker after that, the rain heavier, snow colder and the wind stronger.  Always patiently waiting for any communication.  There were days my heart ached for you and tears never stopped falling. Thanksgiving and Christmas were never the same. Everyday I prayed for you to be safe.

seasons change with time
nocturnal insomnia
soul hibernating

My prayers were answered when you returned safely. Still the noble son that had left to protect our country.  Not just a hero to the nation, but my biggest one.  You being home was like the first day of spring.  Everything was colourful and flowers began to bloom.  Holding you - my heart was finally at peace.

sun is shining bright
birds sing their beautiful songs
love has returned home

My first attempt at a traditional Haibun.
Oil Paintings 4 & 5 - Poetry Contest by Eve Roper
The Silent One
28 November 2015





Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2015

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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.


Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2013

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The Lady Of The House

It’s siesta, yet one can hear from the second floor of the house the animated sharing of juicy news some visitors have brought to the gracious host, the lovely widow of a wealthy sugar planter.  The sound of laughter is carried over the charming veranda bordered by lacy cast-iron grillwork, with its delicate oak leaf and acorn design and colorful, overhanging ornamental plants and flowers.  

Three Creole society matrons in their typical 1840s long dress fashion despite the sultry heat are being served their tea and fanned by the owner’s black slaves. They are talking about the strange happenings at what used to be Dr. Louis and Mdme. Delphine Lalaurie’s grand house at 1140 Royal Street, a few houses away from the where they are having an afternoon gossip. Apparently, the last tenant abandoned the Lalaurie house not only because of some ghost sightings and agonized sounds that were heard from within.  His furniture business inventory was also being mysteriously destroyed at night. 

The lady of the house remembers how Mdme. Delphine Lalaurie used to be a respected member of New Orleans society.  After the fire in 1834 and the subsequent discovery by firemen of seven emaciated slaves at the attic with obvious traces of abuse and torture, the couple and their four grown-up children had to flee in the middle of the night, or be lynched by the angry townsfolk.  

Were all the stories true?  Six years later, no human bones were discovered at the backyard, nor actual records or reports thereof, negating further accusations of slave murders, including that of a young girl who allegedly fell from the rooftop trying to escape her lady’s wrath.  If Mdme. Lalaurie was the inhuman monster the press accused her of that time, then all of her contemporaries were also guilty, including all plantation owners, for the practice of slavery was fundamentally immoral and depraved.  The lady of the house tells herself it is best to keep silent and let one person take all the condemnation.  This removes the attention of the press and the restless community away from her social circle and her own guilt. 


privileged mindset 
and undue exploitation -
cancer cell takes root




Inspired by A House in New Orleans Contest 
27 January 2016


Note:  The Lady of the House is a fictitious character, but relies heavily on historical background from:

1.	Mad Madam Lalaurie: New Orlean’s Famous Murderess Revealed  by Victoria Costner Love and Lorelei Shannon
2.	Old New Orleans, a History of Vieux Carre, Its Ancient and Historical Buildings by Stanley Clisby Arthur
3.	Mdme. Delphine Lalaurie, Wikipedia


Copyright © KP Nunez | Year Posted 2016

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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



.


Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner | Year Posted 2013

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The Devil Made Me Do It

It had been a long night, an hour drive just to be with my sister. One must stay in touch with family; it’s the right thing to do. I don't even know what movie we saw. Here she was again in all her glory whining, and whimpering, about her conditions. Confined space is the wrong place to be with someone bi-polar. Sometimes, I think the family should mark her eruptions on a calendar, maybe there’s a pattern? She was hungry; her blood sugar was low; hurry, get her home! 

“Geez Sis, if my life depended on carrying peanuts, I'd make damn sure I had them with me!” I my replied. 

the sleet fell
through the headlight beams:
fog inside

“You bleeping self-centered witch!” Her reply.

And on and on, enumerating all my faults at the top of her lungs. Her face was darting back and forth across the stick shift like a viper. The weather was so bad, and her screaming so loud; I almost drove us up a telephone pole. The back road to her house was serpentine through a pinewood, and over narrow, slick, bridges. Well, about fifteen minutes into my dissection, I burst a gut.

“You need to have some control. Your diet is horrible. I wish you could see yourself eating. Your plate might as well be a trough.” There now I’ve gone and done it, I thought to myself. The little devil in me was all smiles. When we pulled into the driveway; she leapt out.

the car door
slams rattling the glass:
eyes wet as rain glass 

It only felt good for a moment. It was true; she did deserve the comment. She’d felt free to butcher me, but, it was wrong to try to hurt her. The momentary release, which felt so good, has given us months of anguish. 


Published in Dead Snakes Magazine Winter 2014




Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2014

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REQUIEM IN MY HEART



Out in the middle of a large farmland, I become a girl of old charm and unexpected songs again. Past the flanks where cluttered rows of hyacinths and ferns quiver, disarranged huts begin to shake as the rough wind wheezes. And on this late July, mounds of dust remind me of summers back in my grandfather’s hometown. Yet, a different vanishing overtakes me.

a season passes…
carrying all its flowers
to emerge as buds

Watching for thrushes that grow moist from dusky froth , my heels trek along deepened clay. As I lay on haystacks listening to stars chiming, the inky moon sinks its riddled face through a veil. Somehow, I feel alone...abandoned  like the  opera of a heart which seems to fall into a tragic ending. Yes, Grandpa isn’t around any longer, as a requiem of tears swells.

on this barren field…
a solitary twig cracks
from one glittered tree

The nightfall drools looking for the yellow among clouds. For a while, the hazy outlines of strangers--native women and children ---disturb my old revelries  when Grandpa would linger by the porch dipping tunes from his violin. Through calm intervals of laughter, we sway together;  fire to air, salt to honey. Much as I need to inhabit this space, it no longer belongs to me, or to him. But twilight comes brimming with all the glistened jewels of our own world.

between two lifetimes
is a haunting melody…
like a song unsung


11/19/2015
Creative Haibuns Contest
For Charlotte Jade Puddifoot




Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2015

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DELICACY IN PAIN


Her reveries slant the compass of time: 1970s. Minefields now roar through blurred visions. She retreats into dots of space to live in the moment, as emotions fling to a gray sky. While curtains blow unceasingly, hours freeze. Again, love passes; leaves, while a young wife’s heart crushes in tears. 

bouyant clouds wander
in the expanse of night time
to gather shadows

There is delicacy in pain. Letters from Nam change the dark of winter to a glitter of December lights. As she sets the table, the flaming candle waxes through a kitchen filled with sweets and almonds . He is the breath touching musical tones in the quiet rhythm where carols are sung together. Feeling his presence,
she regales in a lone dance of fond remembering.

pines in crimson gold
waltz across the starlight
etching mellow notes

Somehow, a woman begins to droop beside a half-closed window. In the cold of duskfall, she longs
for her soldier husband, quietly. Then wiping her cheeks, she is refreshed by those who need her, now. In a joyful play with daughter and son, Aunt Jamie finds her true north. Such is the luster of more tomorrows, 

moon glimmers, dust fades
a balm of healing renews
fresh discoveries


For SKAT : Any Poem You are Proud Of Contest
Reposted 5/14/2016



Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2015

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where barren branches touch newborn leaves

Scurrying on my way home, a little leaf catches my eye, and I am compelled yet again to slow down.

a whirlwind of thoughts
compete with swaying of trees~
lone leaf on my shoe

I am not sure exactly when my fascination for falling leaves started, there is just something so beautiful and artistic in which they drift to the ground....I recall one particular moment in my college literature class when my professor inquired into my choice of the word "wither" in my leaf metaphor for a dying old couple. 

My explanation involved telling him that for me, that particular word had a certain gracefulness to it, and that was how I saw that couple in their twilight years. But I deviate, for I merely intend to write about the interesting tree that I saw the other day. I do not know what species it is, but it bears its berry-like fruits on its branches and it has cordate leaves.

barren branches touch
newborn leaves on other side--
a paradox tree

A smile languidly forms together with my memory of seeing that same tree six days post double-faced state. It proudly donned a full crown of leaves in less than a week. With this image in mind, I can’t help but feel mystified, with the constancy and dichotomy of change….It seems like everything around me is continuously evolving, revolving. I can’t help but feel lost.

Almost in defiance to this line of thinking, I shake the leaf off my shoe, and trample on it. Instead of feeling satisfied, I feel guilt. I never did forget that Enid Blyton tale of how dried leaves were actually fairies. 

littered autumn road
I stomp on the frail fallen….
my feet crushing death

Rolling my eyes with my melodramatic thoughts, I continue my walk home. It’s crazy how leaves can make me go philoloopysical. I am tempted to actually stop in the middle of the road and simply sit there—be among the trees as the wind serenades them, with the leaves swaying gently, some choosing to pirouette, some doing the salsa dip.  

Being the practical person that I am, I just run my fingers along my wind-discoed hair. If it were possible, I would like to be a leaf. I find such nobility and grace to it. Imagine being able to capture light, transforming energy to create nourishment. Giving, breathing life. There is a delicate artistry with the changing of its colors—a complex, fascinating chemistry in each blade that I’m sure God is so proud of.

eyes gently follow
  dying trail of withered leaf;
wind sighs its mourning


I pick up one leaf to remind me...

11202015


Copyright © binibining P.iNk | Year Posted 2015

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The Gravedigger

He never did see a face though only a board width away,
yet remembers feeling privileged, spending those last few moments
while trying so hard to find the softer soil to lessen the impact
upon the brass plated permanent encasement; in this final resting place.

beneath the old oak
neither sun nor moon perceived
a veil of shadow

He’s mindful of the susceptible sensation within when the last 
shovelful that completely covered the coffin tenderly placed,
then the license to use the coarse fill of heavy clay and stoney soil.

to become apart
at one within holy ground
the grass grows each spring

A phenomenal pride when to barrow away the surplus soil,
leaving the mound trim and tidy, a monument for the deceased;
also a monument for him, his very first dig, all with his own hand.

a mark of respect
for three score years and nineteen
entity forgone.

© Harry J Horsman 2015



Copyright © harry horsman | Year Posted 2015

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Forgotten son

I sat alone... Siblings playing with father.  Guess I'm the black sheep or was I adopted?  Maybe I'm an orphan,  after all it is me who has to disguise these bruises. Nobody knows the daily abuse inflicted upon me.  Everyday the rain seems heavier and skies murkier, as I hide in the clouds - in misery.  What have I ever done to deserve such punishment? Why does God not send me an angel? "Go put the garbage out!" Father demands - my moment of silence disturbed. Why does father blame me for mother's death?

Father stop beating me - I don't want to cry any more it really hurts - the bruises heal, but not the pain I'm dying - please let me live I didn't want mother to die - I loved her too I'm sorry that cancer took her life - I miss her too Why have I become the forgotten son? Lashing out will not bring her back again Instead of protection - I must protect myself from you Maybe you are right - I'm better of dead I wonder who will catch my final tear as darkness begins to appear
My first attempt at prose and Haibun (this one is freestyle). This poem is completely fictional. Haibun Free-Style - Poetry Contest by Scott thirtyseven 27 November 2015


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2015

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I Slipped On A Teardrop

I SLIPPED ON A TEARDROP AND LANDED . . . - Poetry Contest Sponsor: Cindi Rockwell I slipped on a teardrop and landed in her arms. She never knew how much I needed her. I slipped 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 drowning death by suicide I slipped on a teardrop and landed in her misery. She never knew how much I loved her. I slipped 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 slipped on a teardrop and landed in her remorse. She never knew how much I longed for her. I slipped 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 broken to heal sister’s forever She slipped on a teardrop and landed in her grave. Date Written: June 21, 2016


Copyright © Laura Loo | Year Posted 2016

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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.


Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2013

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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


Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner | Year Posted 2012

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Raindrop Butterflies

The snow slowly morphs into rain, a thousand cold cocoons that release raindrop butterflies into the frosty air. They glisten in the morning light, clinging to soft leather like tiny diamonds as he drapes his jacket across my shoulders.

The jacket smells like him: fresh soap and spicy aftershave--and that spearmint gum he always keeps on hand. It's way too big on me, but he zips it up anyway, pulling the hood over my head to shield me from the rain.


dripping icicles bleed beads of liquid light-- fingers intertwine
He's soaked, but he doesn't seem to care as water slides down his rosy cheeks, dripping from his frozen nose. He brings my hand to his lips and whispers, "Happy New Year." Even his lips are cold, but I lend him my warmth. As we stand there together in the soft tranquility of winter rain, I realize I'm happy. I want to stay here forever, in this life-sized snow globe of frigid weather and smooth, warm leather. For Giorgio's "Leather Jacket" contest


Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2013

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An Autumn Farewell

Going out of his way, the obliging taxi driver drives to the top of the hill.
      A young man gets out, walks a short distance to a vantage point
                where his gaze falls upon the village down below, 
                the old cottages and farmhouses, sprawling fields,
                        winding lanes, and the clustered trees
                                where the stream skips by.

                                       an overcast sky
                                 scent of rain is in the air
                                     a lone robin chirps

                  His eyes roam slowly, taking in little details,
                       keen to save them in his mind, fresh,
             like the morning dew clinging to the swaying grass.

                                 the cool autumn breeze
                               ruffles hair and memories
                                     stirring emotions

                           Time is pressing. One last look.
                    Then he reluctantly goes back to the car.
            Soon, it’s speeding along the asphalted country road
              heading to the station where a steam train awaits.
                     A new chapter in life...The city beckons.

                                   sudden drops of rain
                                spatter on the hazy glass
                                    sad eyes turn misty


--------------------------------------

15th November, 2015
Contest: Creative Haibuns
Sponsor: Charlotte Jade Puddifoot
Placed 4th


Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2015

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Sweet Child Of Mine

     As I watched my daughter playing with her son, I couldn't help but see myself in her. I still think of her as a child, but I guess parents always see their grown children as babies. My daughter is a reflection of me in many ways. She calls me her hero, but I'm the one who is proud of her. A tear rolls from my eye as I remember all the struggles we faced. Growing up as the child of a single parent, her life was a harsh reality.  

                   I didn't know how to care for you, or how to handle your cries.
                   I wasn't sure what to do until I looked into your innocent eyes.  

                   The first time you woke in the night, you scared me half to death.
                   My heart was filled with such fright, I could hardly catch my breath

                   I fixed you a bottle of warm milk and rocked you until sleeping.
                   I touched your hair, soft as silk. I held you close in safe-keeping.

     My daughter left for a meeting in the middle of an atrocious storm. Heavy rain had been falling all day with outbreaks of thunder and lightning. "Love you both," she said, as she hugged me and her son, then rushed out. I was left with my adorable grandson. Cuddling him close and watching him play reminded me of times when my daughter was his age. Life had been a struggle: she had been a lively infant but I'd almost lost her from a series of convulsions. When she was nine, she decided to run away, but only got as far as the front yard. Then there were the terrible teens with the silly boyfriends I had to threaten. She had matured into a beautiful young woman, a wife and mother, and an influential and inspirational adult. Watching her grow up had been filled with trials, but also with much love and delight - I would not have changed a thing.

                You were nearly lost to me, and I would've never known
                the angel you would be, through the years you've grown.

                Your younger years we spent together flew by much too fast.
                A boyfriend dressed in leather?  Thank God that's in the past. 

                Who would you become, when into a woman you were grown?
                One day to be a mum? Would you have a child of your own? 
 
     My grandson fell asleep in my arms. I didn't want to put him down, so I held him close like I used to hold my baby girl. He looked so peaceful and innocent. I was shaken from my reverie by the wind as it rattled the windows and drove sheets of rain against the panes.  With each flash of lightning and crash of thunder,  my worry grew.  I gazed at the clock and realized my daughter had been gone for more than five hours. She wasn't answering her phone. The intensity of the storm filled me with a sudden fear, just like the fear I had when she was young.

                                            baby in my arms
                               I will keep you safe from harms
                                         the rage of all storms


                                          now I fret and stew
                                daughter, what's become of you
                                         what more can I do


     I felt so helpless, trapped in the house with the baby. My palms were starting to sweat so I put him down in his crib. Even if he wasn't here I wouldn't know where to look for her. I started pacing, emotions switching between fear and agitation. I started to panic. What if something had happened to her? What would I do without her? All those fears I had when she was a child came back to me. I had to get hold of emotions. I couldn't panic. Then the door opened. "Sorry, Mum. The weather was too bad to drive home so I met a friend for coffee, and my phone lost its charge."  A sense of relief flooded through me. I held her close, just like I did when she was a child.

                                     You were my angel as a little girl
                                     Ribbons to tame your unruly curls
                                     Then you grew up much too fast
                                     into a lovely woman, a bonny lass.

                                    Now you have a child of your own.
                                    Before you know it, he'll be grown.
                                    A grandson to hold upon my knee,
                                    Thank you, daughter, for loving me.


Freestyle Haibun: Prose, Couplets, Senryu and Rhyme.
Collaboration between Lin Lane and Silent One
December 10th 2015


                              













Copyright © Lin Lane | Year Posted 2015

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Jamming in heaven

Cancer had finally caught up with me. Family and friends watched as I lay there dying. My vision was weak, but I could recognise the figures in the room.  The song my daughters used to sing with me - you can let go now daddy, was in my head. Their innocent faces full of grief and their eyes full of tears, encouraged me to fight a little longer.  My beloved mother held my hand - I was too fragile to wipe away her tears.  I could hear her say, "no son should die before his mother." The room started getting darker, as my heart started beating slower.  Breathing became more difficult as I gasped for air...

Goodbye, please remember me with a smile I lived, loved and thought with my own style Life is about learning - not losing or winning is death the end or the dawn of a new beginning
I woke to find myself in surroundings too surreal for words. It was so bright, I had to cover my eyes. A figure appeared, but it was difficult to focus with my eyes in so much pain from its ethereal reflection. Was It God or an Angel? It began to walk - I followed in silence, blind and apprehensive, but ardent. The journey ended as we came to a cross road of several portals. Each one had a different heading - sport, music, art, food & drink or philosophy. No meeting with a higher power nor family. I chose music! Before I entered, turning back to say goodbye... The light was no longer there...
Moonwalking with Michael Jackson jamming with Jimi Hendrix rapping with my man Tupac reciting rhapsodies with Freddie Mercury doing it our way with Frank Sinatra getting down with James Brown no woman no cry with bob Marley singing the blues with Johnny Cash whispering words of wisdom with Lennon never feeling lonesome with Elvis - the king! Now this is what I call heaven Free style Haibun inspired by Scott Thirtyseven 2 paragraphs of prose 2 verses of couplet 1 free verse The Silent One 30 November 2015 I Went To Heaven - Poetry Contest by Laura Urbaniak


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2015

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Inspired by Gaia


Rays of sunlight awaken and skies of sapphire inspire, when mother lies back with eyes veiled, breathing out life and breathing in spirit. She is the fertile earth and boundless sky. She glides through eternity, rising and falling. Her hair, once the color of midnight, now shines silver like beams from the full moon, and the stars encircling her, illuminate creation, igniting dreams and enchanting sleepless nights. As we, who no longer walk barefoot upon the earth, busy ourselves, forgetting to lift our eyes in witness to her majesty and her beauty and her grace. Our hearts still beat in unison with her essence. Beneath the stars, we walk upon the same dusty earth as our ancestors. The sky rumbles all around us with echoes of the past, and in stillness, she feels the knees of the forgotten pressed against her chest giving thanks for her nurturing breath. 


spirits veil her eyes -
drifting through sapphire sky
constellations align
 


*Haibun form inspired by Susan Seddon Boulet’s Gaia 
(for Debbie Guzzi’s Free Verse, Prose, Haibun Contest, 11/1/2014)  



Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2014

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The silent alarm

For some reason, this morning her alarm clock failed to sound. With eyes half closed,
 she glanced at the clock.  It was around 8 AM. She got dressed as quickly as     
she could,  hurried to the train station. When the train  arrived; she managed 
 to get a seat . She  put on her glasses and took out her crossword puzzle.   
  She  became lost in the clues. She had finished  one puzzle,  was on to the next,  
when the  voice of the conductor interrupted her thoughts. A delay was announced.   
 As it turned out, the train ahead had derailed.  Many were seriously injured. 
  It was then,  she appreciated the silence of her alarm clock.
                                                    -----


a peal of thunder
  shatters the peace of the day
 rain comes crashing down
 

 
  

  


Copyright © Joseph May | Year Posted 2014

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Tattered Pages


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


Haibun

For the contest, Haibun, sponsor, scott thiryseven

Third Place 




Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015

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PARALLEL AUTUMN SURPRISES



PARALLEL AUTUMN SURPRISES A ferris wheel of no return, she stood with rosy cheeks so fair; both day and night just wide rocky bridges of light and dark. All she needed was bulb of fresh start.. Three months pass after the love explosion happened, her pillar of strength taken for independence sake. Only candles of hope she has; slowly, slowly losing its glow. Her eyes were a train flood of crystal tears. Her heart jailed from loss but needed to be freed for the sake of a budding life. She opens her door day by day beaming a sunshine in her face. Her chest-buds bloom so graceful. Her tummy grows a robust breathing sphere. Parallel autumn surprises bring her to a sandwich salad showcase. A year passed, in a fragrant natural lair with the light bowing down on them, she planted a kiss on her baby's lips. Hush... to ... rush... Hush... to ... rush... Teardrops held long tumble thunder listless from her eyes of rest and quiet yet, her steady voice whispers a storm... Head... to ... toe Head... to ... toe Forlorn rose maiden exhaled- cyclic shudders: wells of regret like a ruined garden where blossoms frown, green leaves too, turned brown. Sun... to... rain... Sun... to... rain... Her life blossomed amidst earthquake break of failures, true love she finally receive-- it pardoned her wrongs. Sighs... to... groans... Sighs... to... groans... Bright twinkling stars tended safe the narrow path as silhouetted liquid moon cajoles her long bittersweet escape. Kiss... to ... freedom... Kiss... to ... freedom... Her heartstrings strum endless: her abounding joy! Upon hopeful eyes mirror, the sparkles of her infants tears... ______________________________________________________________________ ***Haibun Freestyle 08:34 pm, November 24, 2015


Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo | Year Posted 2015

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Sweet child of mine

As I watched my daughter playing with her son, I couldn't help but see myself in her. I still think of her as a child, but i guess parents always see their grown children as babies. My daughter is a reflection of me in many ways. She calls me her hero, but I'm the one who is proud of her. A tear rolls from my eye as I remember all the struggles we faced. Growing up as the child of a single parent, her life was a harsh reality.  

                   I didn't know how to care for you, or how to handle your cries.
                   I wasn't sure what to do until I looked into your innocent eyes.  

                  The first time you woke in the night, you scared me half to death.
                  My heart was filled with such fright, I could hardly catch my breath

                 I fixed you a bottle of warm milk and rocked you until sleeping.
                 I touched your hair, soft as silk. I held you close in safe-keeping.

     My daughter left for a meeting in the middle of an atrocious storm. Heavy rain had been falling all day with outbreaks of thunder and lightning. "Love you both," she said, as she hugged me and her son, then rushed out. I was left with my adorable grandson. Cuddling him close and watching him play reminded me of times when my daughter was his age. Life had been a struggle: she had been a lively infant but I'd almost lost her from a series of convulsions. When she was nine, she decided to run away, but only got as far as the front yard. Then there were the terrible teens with the silly boyfriends I had to threaten. She had matured into a beautiful young woman, a wife and mother, and an influential and inspirational adult. Watching her grow up had been filled with trials, but also with much love and delight - I would not have changed a thing.

                 You were nearly lost to me, and I would've never known
                 the angel you would be, through the years you've grown.

                Your younger years we spent together flew by much too fast.
                A boyfriend dressed in leather?  Thank God that's in the past. 

               Who would you become, when into a woman you were grown?
               One day to be a mum? Would you have a child of your own? 
 
     My grandson fell asleep in my arms. I didn't want to put him down, so I held him close like I used to hold my baby girl. He looked so peaceful and innocent. I was shaken from my reverie by the wind as it rattled the windows and drove sheets of rain against the panes.  With each flash of lightning and crash of thunder,  my worry grew.  I gazed at the clock and realized my daughter had been gone for more than five hours. She wasn't answering her phone. The intensity of the storm filled me with a sudden fear, just like the fear I had when she was young.

                                            baby in my arms
                               I will keep you safe from harms
                                         the rage of all storms


                                          now I fret and stew
                                daughter, what's become of you
                                         what more can I do


        I felt so helpless, trapped in the house with the baby. My palms were starting to sweat so I put him down in his crib. Even if he wasn't here I wouldn't know where to look for her. I started pacing, emotions switching between fear and agitation. I started to panic. What if something had happened to her? What would I do without her? All those fears I had when she was a child came back to me. I had to get hold of emotions. I couldn't panic. Then the door opened. "Sorry, Mum. The weather was too bad to drive home so I met a friend for coffee, and my phone lost its charge."  A sense of relief flooded through me. I held her close, just like I did when she was a child.

                                    You were my angel as a little girl
                                     Ribbons to tame your unruly curls
                                     Then you grew up much too fast
                                     into a lovely woman, a bonny lass.

                                    Now you have a child of your own.
                                    Before you know it, he'll be grown.
                                    A grandson to hold upon my knee,
                                    Thank you, daughter, for loving me.

Freestyle Haibun: Prose, Couplets, Senryu and Rhyme.
Collaboration between Lin Lane and Silent One
10 December 2015


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2015

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a thawing of hearts - for contest

I sat quietly and waited, making the noises he had come to know, calling him in his newly given name.  His face would appear, cautiously calculating my intent, he would approach.  The promise of food and gentle touch too much to deny.  And so we did the “Little Prince’s” taming dance, each aware of the other and the possibility of betrayal.

cold eyes, empty heart frost forming on life’s edges winter’s numbing kiss
Our meetings continued, less cautious greetings, more welcome contact, minimal conversation. His coat was becoming more ragged in spite of attempts to keep it up, his gait slowing as our good-byes became short walks together. He could not leave his place, his home, even though it had left him – alone, to fend for himself.
hoarfrost in retreat sunrise gently awakens friendships warming blood
He withdrew – I would wait, quietly, whisper the name he had come to know, make the sounds that signaled “all clear”. I searched for him, stood silent and listened for his weakening call, shed tears in the cold rain of November. His last call, a feeble attempt at good-bye, led me to him. Alone, cold, hungry, he lay there, rolled his eyes as I cradled his cold and fading spirit. He shivered – and left.
winter’s cold cradle ice encasing a friendship a thawing of hearts
10/20/2015 submitted to – Creative Haibuns – Poetry Contest sponsor – Charlotte Jade Puddifoot


Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2015