The drought continues. What roared through verdant channels now trickles. The lion’s roar is a kitten’s purr. Empty space calls forth a steady blankness.
Haiku flow easily enough. Tanka pour out with little difficulty.
But haibun?
I am William Shakespeare from “Shakespeare in Love,” lying on his apothecary’s couch, saying, “I’ve lost my gift.” The muse hisses at my pleas, muttering about what happened to my belief in practice. She’s right. I’ve scarecly lifted the gel-ink, push-button writer’s pen I bought at stables to write haibun in my refillable journals. The promises of “haibun hour” I’ve made, I break.
Thus, now that I go to the well, I find only dust emerging from a rickety bucket.
twilight
even in the cold
cricket songs
UPDATE: I’m hosting Haibun Monday (9/27/21) today over at dVerse, where we write about writer’s block!
The Pub is open! Come join us!
Frank J. Tassone 
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