Tag: haibun
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1.02.22: dVerse Haibun
Winter Digs In The way dark digs itself out of soil, or the way February always shivers as ice settles on the straight lines and arches of its letters, and the way the sunrise swells, red and sore as neglect, and yet we always expect morning to reign over us with hope and generosity .…
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dVerse: Tuesday Poetics Haibun
The Table of Imaginary Dreams Until we knocked walls down, this was the dining room. Now it’s a bright corner with a heavy oak table, chairs that won’t slide easily under the table when you’re sitting on them. And there, an old milk bottle with a few flowers bending from the stem. Even in winter…
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dVerse Poets Haibun Monday
I want to believe in tenderness that’s gentle as a candle, tender as a single vine growing up a tree, the sweet tones of a sparrow’s song, but I can’t stop looking at those crows across the street, balanced like pegs on a telephone line, and clawing at the roof ridges, clinging to the bare…
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Miz Quickly’s Day 11: Monday
11 October, Monday: Not by choice, my alarm lets me sleep through all its noise until 8:30. That’s every day, not just today, and then I smell coffee. It starts brewing at 8. Perhaps it’s the coffee that wakes me up. I think coffee is supposed to do that. A few stretches, and I shower.…
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for dVerse Poets: Haibun Monday
It’s Just Words Someone once said that I was a prolific. As a writer. At the time, I thought it a compliment. Years later, I’m not sure that’s a good thing. Being prolific. It’s like standing in a bucket of your own sweat. Being overcome by noise. Your own noise. So you can’t hear your…
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31 August dVerse: Back to School
Elementary I’ve become vaguely dubious about the roller blinds in our classroom. My teacher pulls the blinds down every Wednesday at noon, just before the air raid siren blares, and I don’t see how curling into a ball under my lift-top desk with my back to the window helps me survive a nuclear bomb. And our…
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Stream of Consciousness Saturday
31 July 21: A Stream of Consciousness Haibun The bees are crazy on fermented honey, like happy little saints working their way to heaven, and there’s pink and white and green in this a mangle of flowers, a handful for granny’s vase, and in a few days they’ll wilt and drop across the table, lily…
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Saturday’s Stream of (un)Consciousness
My house has a red door. Not sure why I chose red, except that I like red. Nobody else around here does, it seems. Across the street, their front door is white. Next door’s is white. The other side is grey. Next to them is grey. There’s a blue one up the street. And a…
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Reblogged for Flashback Friday
I. It’s hot. Like record-breaking hot. I want to chill my skin across cold marble. Like shortcrust pastry needs. Or submerge myself into a wave, into the sequinned imagination of a mermaid. Like a cold water fish. Like a big old lazy cod. I want to hibernate in a green grassy mirage before I falter…
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dVerse Haibun
Yes, Of Course, The Lesser Periwinkle I’m sitting in the damp evening air, rain still dripping from the leaves, and my ear catches the sound of small bone animals in the Vinca Minor (there was a time when I couldn’t recall its proper name – now I can’t recall its common name, although I’m sure…
It's Still Life 