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
____________________________________________________________
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
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.
The sun swiftly sits on the creased sea line, stirring crooning clouds of romance.
I sit in awe ~ mesmerized, for the millionth time,
watching the sky sing your name, filling the salty air with high-pitched notes of nostalgia.
For between the island of longing and mountains with willows of infatuation,
amidst the many gusts and gales of seasonal shifts,
between your ink and my canvas, I feel the warmth of your love-struck twilight,
as if we were wishing upon the same evening star, flickering opalescent flames of desire.
While fireflies flutter like aurora beams,
twirling like topaz that mirrors diamond dreams, above our skin,
screaming for a silent rendezvous,
where no wind or dust can blur or veil the musical memories of our unspoken poetry.
In this moment, I realize I am not alone. The seagull that visits the same spot every day rests still,
surrounded by ripples of honeyed turquoise. Perhaps she is lost in thought, just as I am,
as the way we both are in sync with nature reminds me of the ephemeral tunes of time~
how it unfolds Polaroids of promises, scattered like aching footprints in the moon-touched sand.
Maybe the dance of the seraphic breeze and flurry of hues would redefine unseen tomorrows,
as weightless crimson carries scarlet sonnets, sealed in spiced eloquence…
marigold secrets
etched within cinnamon sun~
halcyon heartbeats …
clouds like sheep
grazing in the blue
scatter on the breeze
How marvelous was the first week of March in my state. The temperatures exceeded my hopeful expectations. If the old proverb is true, perhaps this month will go out with a lion’s roar, for I’m pretty sure it came in with the bleat of a lamb! Daylight Saving time also has arrived along with St. Patrick’s Day and the wearing of the green, and Easter and our Mother’s Day will follow. The day I most look forward to, however, is that day which turns my front yard into a bright fiesta. Right around the end of week one or two of April, my ornamental pear and plum trees always undergo their annual transformation.
pear tree’s white petals
pearlescent in the sun . . .
plum tree’s blush
Yes, each April it never fails to amaze me: nature’s orderly sequence of events which so beautifully welcome spring’s warmth. Birds whose nests are so well-hidden in each tree’s branches will decorate my yard with their flashes of color as they soar to the sky and then flit among the leaves of their new-found home. I enjoy catching glimpses of the swallows’ shiny dark wings and the red of the robin and of the occasional cardinal. Even more special are sudden glimpses of bluebirds and hummingbirds that I rarely get to see! These sightings so excite me!
lion or lamb -
spring turns me into
an April fool
March 21, 2021
for the Springtime Haibun Contest Poetry Contest of M. L. Kiser
Now for Brian Strand's 'ALL YOURS (Apr 12)' Poetry Contest
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
11/19/2015
Creative Haibun Contest
For Charlotte Jade Puddifoot
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 1/14 2016
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
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
"The sun shall shine in ages yet to be, the musing moon illumine pastures dim, and afterwards a new nativity for all who slept the dreamless interim."
~ Nathalia Crane
Twilight and its prismed colors paint the Earth in soft roseate light. Rays of the sun descend, glowing like threads of gold, woven into clouds above the ocean's threshold. Brushed with pastels of pink and lavender, the sky is a beautiful canvas to behold. Soon, the moon will ascend, and its lustrous silver sheen will be reflected in my lover's eyes.
gilded is the sun
as it slides into the sea ~
silvery moonlight
April 14, 2021
Writing Prompt- Shine - Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France