Tag: haibun
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Weird Wisdom?
The man at the Al-Anon meeting celebrated 25 years of recovery. His simple eloquence inspired us. His was a testament to the power of ordinary living through serenity, courage, and wisdom–the fruit of integrating extraordinary grace. But it was what he did before he sat down from speaking that remains. He lifted up the 25-year…
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Sirening
The wind cries, wailes, groans. The house shudders. Lightning flashes. & everywhere, pouring rain. I tremble on the couch with each flash, thunder interrupting my reading of Ox Herders and Aquinas. Outside, I cry, wail, groan. I shake the house. I flash across the sky. & everywhere, me, pouring down. Chuangxi dreamed he was a…
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Lunar Amity
(Photo by John McKaveney: Bright Moon) I can’t remember when we met. Was I truly just a boy? Gazing up at you, as you coyly peaked out of the clouds, some star-obscured night. I can certainly remember the loves I brought before you. Our deep embraces, so luscious with savored intimacy, offered up to you like…
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#Haikai Challenge II #12 (4/1/24): Poetry (uta) #haiku #senryu #haibun #tanka #kyoka #haiga #renga #HaikaiChallenge
I trust, haijin, that you enjoyed the Equinox—and the lengthening days that followed. Congratulations to the last challenge’s contributors: Haikai Challenge Participants 1. Jules2. Cheryl3. Eugi 4. Peter5. Kerfe6. Melissa 7. Petru Powered by… Mister Linky’s Magical Widgets. Looking ahead: Today is April first, the first day of National Poetry Month! Many of us will…
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Equinoxal Satisfaction
How I again savor the return of greater daylight after today. coming all too soon Equinox for my own #Haikai Challenge II #11
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Hatsu Hana Nostalgia
I remember the first Cherry blossoms at Branch Brook Park, between Newark and Bellville, NJ. The lines of trees along the walking paths and roads, teeming with cascades of white and pink. Grove upon grove of lush blossoms, an effervescence to intoxicate poets. Will that be my lost Rebecca? Or do I dare hope in…
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On Scribbling
Scribbling doesn’t relieve the pain of aching joints. Scribbling doesn’t stop the falling torrents, or the sudden streams flowing down our street. Scribbling doesn’t cease the constant hum of rain impacting the roof. Scribbling doesn’t ease the sandpaper sensation in the elbows. Scribbling incarnates the experience of it all. Scribbling bears witness to every facet…
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A Curious Rain
All it takes is a glimpse. A rain of English gentlemen, and I hear the Dr. Who theme que up. Is it the titular character himself, in yet another incarnation, infinitely mutiplied by some TARDIS-esque machination? It is a novel invasion by another of the Doctor’s legion of enemies? Or is it simply the banality…
Frank J. Tassone 