Who Do You Think You Are: A Haibun

If you were to ask me, “Who do you think you are?” this is what I’d say: I started dancing when God said, “Turn on the lights!” I made music when the first corn grew in dusty places, and the weight of a single kernel was heavier than all of Moctezuma’s gold. I attended the wedding at Cana of Galilee where Jesus said, “Forget the cash bar. I’m turning this water into wine, and it’s free for everyone. Come and get it!” I fiddled all night for the guests as they drank wine, rolled joints, and danced. And in the early hours of the morning I saw how Jesus took that poor, bruised woman with the split lip, laid his hands on her head, and said, “Daughter, be healed.” And she was! So who do I think I am? Why do you even ask? I think you know.


I can’t remember
the last time I quenched my thirst
from a mountain stream.

 

Haibun © 2020 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More The Whirligig #271
 
More Writers’ Pantry #25 at Poets and Storytellers United

 

Mother Left Six Weeks Ago

NOTE: This poem is NOT autobiographical. It is strictly a work of FICTION.
 
  

Mother left six weeks ago, said nothing, no goodbyes.
Wearily she climbed in bed, and then she closed her eyes.
 
Next morning when we found her in the light of day,
Like a stream in summer’s drought, she had passed away.
 
Now it’s time to sort her trash, sort her treasures too—
When your mother leaves this life, that’s what you must do.
 
By the attic window purses lined up in a row,
Bags of shoes, and dusty dresses—everything must go.
 
Pass me mother’s rosary, and some tissues too.
Say a little prayer for me; I’ll say one for you.

 
  
Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher