Frank J. Tassone

Tag: Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads

  • The Vanity of Our Theorizing

    I read Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I shuddered when Phaedrus articulated his theory of “quality,” only to experience a breakdown when he realizes that he simply rediscovered Laoxi’s insight–codified in the Tao Te Ching some 500 years before the birth of Christ: The way you can go isn’t the real…

  • Star Wars Day ’19: Legacy of a Last Jedi: a #haibun chronicle of Luke Skywalker Redux

    Originally posted on Frank J. Tassone: (SPOILER ALERT: If you’re one of the handful that still hasn’t seen Star Wars: The Last Jedi, be warned!) How did it all go so wrong? I was the hero of the rebellion against the empire. I was the last hope of the Jedi. But when it was time…

  • To Write a #Haibun / #TankaProse: an #Ekphrastic #MetaPoem

    See what you see: A river of starlight across the black, the sparkles of starlight across dark water. Experience the sight. Feel the awe that comes from perceiving the sheer immensity of the expanse. Marvel at the serene joy of light amidst darkness. Then imbed sight and intrepretation in language that evokes the musicality of…

  • A Ghost Wolf’s Last Hunt

    I watch my mate from a distance. She wimpers next to my corpse. Hot blood still flows from the gunshot wound that stopped my heart. I watch my mate sniff once, twice, then wimper again. I throw back my head and unleash a howl that she cannot hear. She must rejoin the pack. Our family…

  • Little Things Noticed While Grieving

    You are so still. No rising and falling in your chest. You mouth lies wide open. Someone closed your eyes. The same tepid sunlight partially fills the room and casts shadows throughout. A glass of unfinished pepsi remains by your bedside. You are so still. But morticians styled your hair and applied your makeup. You…

  • An Inventory of Unloving Experiences: a #haiku sequence #haibun

    gathering clouds the fourteen-year-old mouth says “you’re a racist!” The supervisor observes on the day of the facutly-student vollyball game. bird silence repeated interruptions in a raised tone No visible Aim or Do-now, for the class that needs to switch rooms. “Ineffective.” late morning shadows the forty-eight-year-old voice says, “we’re done here.” No notebooks out…

  • Ambivalence at the Dual Meet: a solo #Renga

    chilling wind a blue sky consumed by storm clouds an utter betrayal of the Equinox last sunlight eclipsed by a torrent of storm clouds we huddle together to share our last fading warmth a tease of rain remnants of a winter refusing to die A frigid deluge gathers to drown our last hopes of warmth…

  • Salvation in Solitude

    The drone of morning traffic. The blaring of horns from stopped cars on the Interstate. The adolescent voices that echo off the walls, and their sporadic screams and laughter. The noise from the outside crests like flood waters fed by torrential downpours. It is during such onslaughts that I savor an interior silence. Give me…