Category Archives: Sunday’s Whirligig

Summer


Summer
drew us away
from grief at dusk
as a courteous host
draws his guest
into the light
offering drinks
dinner
and conversation.
Who would want
to escape
such grace?
Only a moth
perhaps
with a broken wing.

 
 

Poem © 2020 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More The Whirligig #291
 
More Writers’ Pantry #45 at Poets and Storytellers United

 

Unprepared


On seeing the world about them go splash,
They put on their helmets, ready to dash
Into the glimmering, shimmering waves
That will soon carry them into their graves.
 
They haven’t a prayer, they haven’t a chance,
They run through the door, preparing to dance
With spiraling waves that will not forgive—
Deadly the moments the boys won’t outlive.
 
Could ever there be a much sadder song
Than that of a day when all things go wrong?
Maybe the wrong would turn right, if we cared,
But plague time is here, and we’re unprepared.

 

Poem © 2020 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More The Whirligig #264
 
More Writers’ Pantry #18 at Poets and Storytellers United

 

An Easter Story


This is an Easter story, a Passover story, an anytime-you-need-to-practice-gratitude story. Once upon a time there was a butterfly who had no wings. She could not fly from here to there, but had to wait for the wind to shake her loose from one flower and carry her to the next. One night she had a dream: She was transformed! She had wings! And the best part? She woke from her dream to find that it was true! She could fly on her own from blossom to blossom! She began to breathe a prayer: “Spirit of wonder! Spirit of love! Thank you for my new life. I will cherish every moment of it, even when my wings become faded and tattered.”


Why are you waiting?
The road your grandmothers walked
is calling your name.

 

Haibun © 2020 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More The Whirligig #261
 
More Writers’ Pantry #15 at Poets and Storytellers United

Spring


1
First great change of spring—
the coronavirus spreads
all over the world.
 
2
On the patio
six feet away from my friend
we share springtime tea.
 
3
first nibble of spring—
a handful of raw almonds
with my morning tea
 
4
Through a small window
I watch the first spring robins
foraging for worms.
 
5
First possum of spring—
I’m inclined to think he’s dead
till his tail twitches.
 
6
Spring sneaks through my yard—
the first blossom’s opening
brings me to my knees.

 
Haiku © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More The Whirligig #259
 
More Writers’ Pantry #13 at Poets and Storytellers United

Five Haiku: Spring Firsts


1
Spring’s first bitterness—
the church on top of the hill
is consumed by fire.
 
2
First small joy of spring—
at the bike store a young boy
gets a bargain price.
 
3
First Sunday of spring—
a worn, but polished, church bell
rings out loud and clear.
 
4
Spring’s first disaster—
the smoke-drenched walls of the bar
tell a fiery tale.
 
5
Spring’s first conundrum—
stand below the fire station,
tell me what you see.

 
Haiku © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More The Whirligig #258
 
More Writers’ Pantry #12 at Poets and Storytellers United

The Cat’s Wisdom: A Haibun of Imagination


Yesterday at noon, when I opened my kitchen window, I looked out toward the clothesline, and saw the neighbor’s scruffy cat. “So, you’ve finally decided to wake up,” I said with a laugh. Instead of purring, the cat began snarling at me. It had my full attention! An intimate talk followed, although I will not tell you what was said. That moment stays between the cat and me, and I will hold onto it forever. Meanwhile, I’ve decided to listen. If anything can keep me from seeking the cat’s wisdom again, then I don’t deserve to hear its voice.


Fog envelops me,
yet I keep moving forward
on the unseen way.

 

Haibun © 2020 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More The Whirligig #256
 
More Writers’ Pantry #10 at Poets and Storytellers United

 

Anything Is Possible: A Haibun


If I could touch the sound of a dove with my fingertips, I would. But my hopes are dashed; the little songster flees as I draw near. The dove calls again. Surely this time! Stealthily I move forward, but a dry leaf crackles underfoot. Hush now, I say to myself, you’re making too much noise; surely she hears you. But, no, there on a branch of the plum is the dove, and there is her song, pouring from her beak like a silver waterfall. Slowly, ever so slowly, I approach, I reach, I touch the sparkling notes. The dove does not stir, though she knows full well what I’m doing. You doubt my story? In the Age of Donald Trump, anything is possible.

An old Buddhist monk,
who never tells me his name,
visits me in dreams.

 
  

Haibun © 2020 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #248
 
More Writers’ Pantry #2 at Poets and Storytellers United

 

The Art of Dying: A Haibun


One day I will practice the art of dying. Darkness will gain the upper hand. No one will ring mournful bells from the church spire to announce my passing. While feuds and wars continue on Earth, I will be at peace, having slipped away into a wild and wonderful place. No more false living for me!

Tattered butterfly,
tell me again the reason
nothing stays the same.

 
  

Haibun © 2020 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #247
 
More Writers’ Pantry #1 at Poets and Storytellers United

 

Weird Couplets for Ending the Year


Reasonable weather will come, and it will go.
Why weather does the things it does, who can ever know?
 
  
What’s the point of running when running’s such a pain?
By running from your problems, what do you hope to gain?
 
  
A newborn calf and camel are nuzzling the same cow.
Despite its humpy little back the desert beast knows how.
 
  
A legion of angels, if I should insist,
Will stay by my side until they’re dismissed.
 
  
I have no interest, darling, in dragging out this year.
It’s almost gone—good riddance! Do I make that clear?

 
  

Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #245
 
More Pantry of Poetry and Prose #9 at Poets United

 

Bleak Is the Stable


Bleak is the stable and frosty the hay;
The old shepherd’s moaning, “Please go away!
Give me some quiet, for that would be bliss;
Messes annoy me—just look at all this!
Some other farmhand should milk the brown cow,
While I feed the lambs, the calves, and the sow.
Yes, I know my part, I know it right well:
Work is my worship, despite the rank smell.”

 
  

Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #244
 
More Pantry of Poetry and Prose #8 at Poets United