Long Haibun Poems
Long Haibun Poems. Below are the most popular long Haibun by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Haibun poems by poem length and keyword.
Universe
Universe is now well ordered whole interacting entity. We explore and try to perceive through our senses. Was there any Master Plan? Was there any Creator?
.
Dark void was Cosmos
No Matter, no Energy
No Space set
Big Bang exploded.
Energy, Matter appeared.
Space sets, Time was on.
Matter, Energy, Space were captivated by Gravitational singularity. All were squeezed in infinitesimal small dense super extreme hot state. Cataclysmic explosion termed as Big Bang gave birth to Universe Instantly Universe started to expand rapidly everywhere round.
. Energy can neither be created nor destroyed. Big Bang just released the already –existing Energy.
.At birth Universe was not ‘Big’, but smaller than a single proton. Explosion didn’t come up as ‘Bang’.It was like a snap breaking sharply
Sea of sub atomic particles appeared
within one second of Big Bang.
Protons, electrons, neutrons, positrons,
neutrinos and photons all sang.
As high as ten Billions degree Celsius
Bell of tremendous temperature rang
Photons influenced by free electrons sprang.
From opaque state Universe suddenly turned transparent illuminated by after-glow cosmic microwave radiation. Gigantic clouds of primordial Cosmos particles coalesced by Gravitational Pull.Cluster of stars and galaxies started formation.
Within three minutes simple atomic nuclei came up. Universe continued to cool down.Thousand years passed to shape electrically neutral atom.
.Gravitational pull was supposed to control the expansion of Universe. But Universe is going on expanding. Far away are the galaxies, greater is the acceleration to recede. Something other than Matter or Energy is pushing distant galaxies apart.
This mysterious stuff is not to ignore.
It is termed ‘Dark Energy’, yet to explore.
Will the expansion of Universe stop by chance?
Or, will it ever crush on a Big Crunch ?
11/05/15
101 in a ROW Contest - 12 by Poet Destroyer A
MY FATHER'S GENTLE HANDS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I remember my father’s hands as a plumber’s hands—fiercely strong, calloused, rough, knuckle-battered, and dirty after a long-day’s work. Those hands shoveled; unclogged drains and toilets; repaired leaks; and installed pipes, commodes, and bathtubs. Those hands provided.
I remember my father’s hands as a fisherman’s hands—perfectly patient, tenacious, self-confident, and unwavering as he held his fishing line and lure stabile, waiting for a fish to take the bait. “Keep your hands steady. Stay focused,” he prompted me when I asked him to teach me how to fish from his flat-bottom boat. Those hands fished longer than they ‘plumbed,’ rarely missing an opportunity to commune with nature, seldom losing a fish. Those hands fed.
I remember my father’s hands as a treasure hunter’s hands—firm, certain, and capable, listening intently to his metal detector’s tones learning to discriminate the sound a good coin makes compared to the choppy, broken sound a junk target makes. Those hands searched, discriminated, and found soulful answers to life’s complex questions and dilemmas.
I remember my father’s hands as gentle healing hands—kind and comforting as he wiped away the tears that sometimes streamed down my face. Without saying a word, those hands loved, consoled, and encouraged—always righting my world.
I remember my father’s hands—full of strength and hope as he took my trembling hands in his. Those hands gave me courage—the courage to reach up in search of everything impossible, leaving me with the unbridled sense that to do anything less was the greatest impossibility of all. Even now whenever I need courage, I can feel his hand around mine helping me to feel invincible once again.
In my mind’s eye, I often see my father’s hands—every line and every wrinkle. They told a story about the kind of man he was. I’ll remember my father’s hands for the remainder of my life. I’m grateful for him, for his enduring spirit and presence, which continues to grace my life despite his passing some years ago.
Dad's hands tell a tale
they did countless loving things
they touched and guided
they shaped and molded
they encouraged me to reach
they held the stars in place
they held rising sun
they sought deep understanding
they chased lonely moon
I. Theory
She is dark and her darkness frightens you. But as closer you come to her, the lighter the darkness becomes. How bright the light were, if a thousand suns would rise in the sky at once, but even such unbearable light powerlessly pales in comparison with the darkness of the one who scares you so much. The whole world, from heaven to hell, from black holes to snake’s ones, from the purest aspirations of human soul to the dirtiest pores of its flesh, is soaked with darkness like a sponge... Speaking of which, who is a class monitor today? The blackboard after the lesson should be virgin clean.
so don’t be afraid
come close and take the final
step toward yourself
II. Practice
Blind, hands in front, moving forward slowly. Or walking around. Direction no longer mattered. Time too. The last memories of light have long been left behind and now only darkness surrounded me. Alas, I wasn’t alone here. Fear didn’t leave my side, and its chains, clanging out there, made me nervously laugh. As instructed, after laughter pain comes, and soon there were three of us: a fear, a pain and the echo, laughing in the dark. It was all a bit sad. It all meant I haven't met her face-to-face yet.
endless loneliness
in everlasting darkness -
that's what she looks like
III. Exam
The human mind turns any abstractions into anthropomorphic forms. She had cat eyes, and in her vertical pupils I saw only eternal gloom. The weary moans of a woman, giving birth in pain; a newborn’s first cry; a girl's tears over the baby bird that fell out of the nest; a red-nosed widower’s choking sobs; an old man’s death rattle; the multi-billion groaning of the planet, being devoured alive by the black hole - that was the voice she spoke to me. Fleeing universes; cold, red, giant corpses of once living and hot stars; lifeless stone balls, spinning in the void - that's what I saw, having come close to her. All that could be said was said; all that could be lost was lost; all that made sense, became senseless. At last I was alone, alone in the literal sense of this word, but even loneliness requires clarification. "The noun, the inanimate, the middle genus," I clarified, and at the same moment I understood the meaning of the lesson, which had previously eluded the one who always was
the unthinkable
inscrutable complacent
dazzlingly bright nought
How I loved spending a week of the summer holidays with my grandparents. Gramps would come and pick me up in his old pick- up truck, dad would bundle my suitcase into the back and I’d be on my way. Gramps would whistle as we wended our way along the winding country lanes until we reached their stone cottage. Grandma would be waiting for us to appear at the door, she always be wearing her checked apron which was flecked with flour. She’d scoop me up in her arms, and carry me into the cosy kitchen where the aroma of cooling gingerbread lingered in the air.
wheat from the old mill
freshly ground into white flour
grandma’s been baking
I would spend many hours in the garden with gramps, in the spring I’d helped him to plant lots of vegetable seeds and now summer had arrived they were ready to be harvested. Gramps would give me a ride in his old wooden red wheelbarrow, the wheel would squeak as he pushed me along the uneven ground and I would squeal with delight when we went over the bumps. In the vegetable garden we would pick perfect pea pods that were fit to burst with juicy green peas, bright orange carrots and creamy cauliflowers which reminded me of brains. All the produce would be placed into the wheelbarrow and I would help gramps to trundle it along the path to the kitchen door. Grandma would be busy in the kitchen and I’d help by podding the peas ready for our evening meal. I loved the popping sound of the pods as I pressed them to release the shiny peas.
from a tiny seed
colourful vegetables grow
harvest time arrives
Many years have elapsed, and sadly gramps and grandma are no longer with us. My father inherited their little stone cottage, which was eventually handed down to me. I now spend happy hours in the garden with my own grandson, and I’m passing on the gardening tips that gramps taught me when I was a small child. The red wooden wheelbarrow which I loved riding in is long gone; but I replaced it with a sturdy one made of shiny red plastic. My grandson loves riding in it to the vegetable patch and I love to hear him squeal with delight as I once did when I rode the same bumpy path.
the red wheelbarrow
reminds me of my grandpa
precious memories
Fiction write
For Your Poetry Journal Poetry Contest
Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart a.k.a Broken Wings
7/28/18
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
Our drive started out like any typical summer trip into Philadelphia. Both buses rolling down the highway loaded with screaming teens, eager to reach their destination in a hurry. Rush-hour traffic was heavy, the white lines hidden beneath watery mirages that lifted only briefly beneath underpasses. The skyscrapers were barely visible through the thick haze of summer's heat. The skyline had the appearance of night and day clashing off in the distance. You could smell the rain approaching.
along city streets
slight breeze carries aroma
food and wet pavement
Once the children were safely inside, the buses continued to 30th street station, the only place the city allows buses to park free. The windows were all still down and the roof hatches open as the skyline grew darker. A light show was off in the distance and approaching quickly. The homeless people were now entering the train station in hopes to stay dry and earn a meal or some quick cash.
almost homeless
young girl wears a sign
on the corner
Inside the train station a young family sits on a bench awaiting the arrival of a family member. The benches line the hallway with vendors tucked in the center isle. We sit across from the young family, facing them as an elderly gentleman approaches them. In his arms he carries a sketchpad and a piece of charcoal. The little boy, probably about 10 years old, has grown tired of sitting by now, and his teenage sitters seem agitated by his silly games, the mother in frustration hands him money for a sketch.
with quick hands
he carefully sketches
to perfection
The oldest sister now amazed asks for her's as well. The man sketches her picture to a beautiful black and white replica. The mother refuses to spend another dime and sends him away without paying. Behind us sits another elderly man. He seems to be carrying on a very intelligent conversation with himself. This amazes the children for their final hour and fills them with much knowledge as they slide in to listen.
an old man speaks
as he looks to his right
just his cane sits
The last train has now entered the station and the crowds of people are disappearing outside. The storm has now passed and the sky left a permanent black with the coming of night. We headed outside to the buses to begun our return trip home.
on the street
two yellow buses
filled with rain
The first time I met Madame La Laurie, was in 1832 When she and her third husband (Dr. Louis La Laurie) purchased me. My first impression of Madame La Laurie was that she was soft spoken, of fine breeding, and very beautiful.
Upon her arrival, she wasted no time filling every nook and cranny at 1140 Royal Street with the finest furniture and china that money could buy. No one looking at the plain exterior of this house, would ever expect such opulence within it walls.
She wore the latest fashions from Paris with a flare beyond rival, even by the most inducted social lights of the hour, which did not go unnoticed. Both men and women, would stop in their tracks to gaze upon this regal beauty as she strolled down the main streets of New Orleans.
Soon, with the aide of her husbands connections through his practise, she, gained acceptance into the higher circles of the community and began hosting what would become, the most sought after dinner invitations in all of New Orleans.
This was the one side of Madame La Laurie that the world saw, but it was I, who bore witness to the other side. NEVER could anyone have ever imagined the atrocities this women committed in her chamber of horrors on the 3rd floor as she maimed, tortured and murdered any slave that displeased her.
~~~
I was burned badly, when one slave, wanting to end his misery, set a fire in the kitchen, finally bringing her reign of terror to and end, where upon she fled in her hell driven carriage, into the night, never to be seen again.
Today, I stand here at 1140 Royal street, completely unrecognizable. I have a different face now. The only thing left one would recognize from that day, would be the old path that runs between me and the adjacent house.
Lush green foliage now grows along its edge, in what I like to think, a remembrance to the tortured souls who died here.
Between these brick walls
Bright light filters from above
Old seeds bloom again
BUT...IF YOU DARE to walk between these walls, you...like me, THAT OLD HOUSE IN NEW ORLEANS, might see the apparitions of the tortured souls still residing there.
~~~
Poetry form: Haibun
For the contest, A House In New Orleans, sponsor, Lin Lane
PLACED SECOND
Leaving heavenly throne to reach-out mankind, the Messiah bore the status of condescension: His birth in the Bethlehem manger brought to Earth’s calendar a divine milestone, while glorious angelic choir and awed shepherds welcomed His babyhood.
offering love’s best
incarnation triumphant
eternal life reigns
Servant-leadership --- Christ exemplified as He ministered with mercy’s optimized best: healing the sick, feeding the multitudes, quickening the dead, forgiving the repentant, pronouncing beatitudes, drawing humanity nigh to the Almighty.
utmost caring shown
compassion indeed at work
blissful selflessness
Falsely accused with blasphemy unpardonable, betrayed by intimate companions, indicted to pay sins’ penalty, Jesus bore the cross to Calvary, giving up the ghost to reconcile sinners to the holy Creator: freeing those who trust Him from iniquities’ condemnation, assuring them heaven’s security, and granting peace so blissful.
grace and justice met
redemption truly fulfilled
blest crucifixion
Entombed, verily secured; yet after three days of burial, the Saviour rose amidst guarding soldiers manifesting His omnipotence: mighty wonder proving His expertise in impossibilities, miraculous act only the Sovereign can do and marvelous magnificence against vanity of temporal existence.
power over grave
resurrection smiting death
hope of believers
Heeded toward the Father above, the Lord entrusted the Great commission-fruition to His church: to build lives, spread His love, exalt His name through the Holy Spirit’s guidance, gearing, guarding, and girding while advancing His kingdom*.
pursuits accomplished
ascension so jubilant
to come again soon
*Matthew 28:19-20 Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost: Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world. Amen.
September 2, 2020
1st place, "Let the Pens Flow - Haibun" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Jenish Somadas; judged on 9/16/2020.
This is featured in the book, PS: It's Poetry: An anthology of contemporary poetry from around the world. Paperback – November 27, 2020 by Arczis (Author), PoetrySoup (Author)
AT ONE WITH NATURE
~~~~~~~~~~
The sun shines, brightly lights my day. My garden verdant many hues of green. Greater speedwell, resilient, blooms no matter the season. Late spring, early summer it explodes. Late Jack Frost, it copes beyond my imagination. A host to many invertebrates sadly made conspicuous by their absence. All misguided by a warming sun. The jet stream meanders too far south making for freezing nights. Most flora copes albeit momentarily set back, however,
most insects' don't survive. The daytime warmth encourages insect eggs', pupae, to hatch, doomed, instincts confounded.
~~~~~~~
a garden
one word... paradise
once our world
~
The day moves on, observed bird life failing, softbills take seed to feed their young. They are faced with a catch twenty-two situation. Feed themselves or feed their young. Aphids on the day abundant, some well sheltered will, and do survive the relentless nights. False security for others, how many would it take to keep a blackbird alive
~~~~~~~
gardens'
where one can cultivate
a love for nature
~
Sun still shining yet the wind chill felt. Summer, I think what
are you doing, but realisation sets in, it is not nature faulting it's us humans treating it as though it is a garbage bin. I know I do, and, maybe you do too. That is to help nature as we always have, sadly we are just a few. We try our best to draw attention to the devastation world pollution is creating. To much time spent by governments debating, if at all? Cos I reckon for centuries they have been faking. Take a good look at your garden where are all the pollinators, Thanks to winds, well at least for some, for no doubt there is flora that will succumb.
~~~~~~~
one heart
a garden to cultivate
truelove
~
My day in my garden nearly done. Koi carp fed, some photography done, Garden sorted, grass cut, hedge begging to be clipped. I look agreeing, but it will keep till the morrow, come what may. Check the feeders, all is fine. Time now for a cuppa, to sit with my beloved, make sure she's comfy and make her smile, for sadly she been poorly for some time.
~~~~~~~
at one with nature
how a garden should be
a passion nurtured
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Walking toward His grave, the cool air nipping at my nape on this chilly Nisan morning, feeling disconsolate. The sun has just risen over the Mount of Olives, while the magnificent temple basks in radiant light just beyond. I used to view the holy place with such reverence. Everything seems different now, at least for me. My head is still spinning over the events we witnessed this past week. The most compassionate man the world has ever known is no more. My spirit sank as they spat on him, hit him with their open hands and fists, beat him mercilessly with bone-braided whips, taunted him, cursed him, then accused him of being a blasphemer and seditionist. To the leaders of my nation he was an outcast, spiritually diseased, the Devil's offspring. And yet, the things we saw him do...
leper messiah
execrated pariah
nailed upon a tree
As I near the tomb where he lay my intent is simply to pray and pay homage, nothing more. Birds are singing sweetly, oblivious to the pain I am feeling deep in my heart. What will I do with the rest of my life now that he is gone? What will Peter and the others... Wait!
MY GOD! I cannot believe what I am seeing. Two guards lie on the ground before the tomb, as if dead. The huge stone, sealed with mortar at Pilate's command, has been rolled to the side, leaving the tomb wide open. What in heaven's name is going on? I glance around, no one in sight. Cautiously I enter. What I see now compels me to drop to my knees. In the place where his body was laid lies the garment that he wore upon the stake, bloodstained and rolled up neatly. Tears fill my eyes as the wonderment of what has happened, or might have happened, breaks my heart. Has his body been stolen? Has all of this been some sort of ruse? Just as I am contemplating recent events, two men in white robes appear beside me and say: "Young man, who are you looking for? This Jesus whom you adore has been raised up, as he explained to you on many occasions. Now go, He is waiting for you in Galilee." As mysteriously as they appeared they vanish before my eyes. One thought consumes me now in this sobering moment, I must spread the word. The Messiah, HE LIVES!
sweet sacred sunrise
dawning of a bright new day
birdsong fills the air
* See my companion poem - Golgotha