Frank J. Tassone

Tag: Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads

  • Balance: a #TankaProse

    Stark images. Virulent quotes. Intensities of expression across social media platforms and lunch tables alike. A jaded comment sits on a Facebook post. A sharp retort forms, a reaction in the making. All of the agitation, and yet the problems remain. A clear sky. Heavy humidity from the Maples’ transpiration. The song and countersong of…

  • Adieu, ye Midsummer’s Day! (a #haibun)

    Daylight yields to darkness in the twilight. It’s nine o’clock in “New York’s backyard,” but still some light remains. Even if it dwindles. The first–and longest–day of summer thus makes way for the first–and shortest–night of this season. Already the temperature drops, as though Autumn can’t wait to upstage the sunny season to come. as…

  • Smuggs ’14 Chronicle, Day 8, August 1, 2014, part II (my latest .@ImageCurve #haibun)

    I watch Mira exit the Pipe Slide at the North Hill Aquatic Center. She flounders in the exit pool, her arms and legs thrashing as her head bobs up and down. My heart skips a beat when a lifeguard stands up, but she recovers. After I slide down, she tells me, “It happens so fast.…

  • Smuggs Chronicle ’14, Day 8: August 1, 2014 (a #TBT #haibun for #ImageCurve)

    Swollen masses of cumulus clouds swallow the sky above Mansfield. They spread like a glacier-paced avalanche. Behind them, patches of blue remain. Beyond that, the midday sun shines. We’ve already swum our laps and rested in two hot-tubs at Courtside. Now, we lounge in the shade, indulging in pineapple and literature, nearly indifferent to the…

  • Smuggs ’14 Chronicle, Day 7: July 31, 2014—Vermont Country Fair (indoors): [My latest #ImageCurve #haibun]

    The kettle-corn maker stands outside the Meeting House. I catch a glimpse of vendors inside. People pour in and out. We pass through the Welcome sign to the Village Center and continue up the path toward the Village Green. Nothing there. The famous Vermont Country Fair is inside the Meeting House. Returning there, we make…

  • Mourning Song: a #haibun

    The days between Dad’s death and his funeral passed with a frantic urgency. There Mom and I were, securing his plot, arranging his wake, purchasing his coffin. We held back the grief as we attended to the business of saying goodbye. I still needed to write his eulogy. Some time in the midst of all…

  • Smuggs Chronicle ’14: Interlude II: Meditation moment this morning (an .@ImageCurve #Haibun)

    Tightness in my throat. Remembering Mrs. Zengo’s confused disappointment. How hurt those brown eyes in that wrinkly forehead that creased with her frown. How sorry I felt—and unforgiven—until she realized I brought in an egg for another student’s recipe. I had overheard their conversation and mistakenly thought I needed to bring in that hard-boiled egg.…

  • Clay Rooted: a #writephoto #haibun

    Princes and Kings call themselves “orphans, widowers, beggars,” to get themselves rooted in the dirt” Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching: A Book about the Way and the Power of the Way, Ursula K Le Guin, pg. 164 We were so dug in, we thought. Look how our shared experience intertwined us. How the gallows humor…