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Onion Sandwich: A Haibun of Imagination


My mother used to say, “It’s hard to improve on an onion sandwich.” She’d peel three small beauties, slice them, and lay the slices between thick slabs of buttered brown bread, sprinkling them with salt and pepper. She chewed slowly and thoughtfully until she had eaten every pungent morsel. Then brushing the crumbs from her lips, she’d reach across the table for her garden catalog, delve into it and dream of planting peas—and more onions—in several parts of her garden.


Winter afternoon—
two jays at the bird feeder
fight over one seed.

 

Haibun © 2020 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
 
More The Whirligig #252
 
More Writers’ Pantry #6 at Poets and Storytellers United

 

Weird Little Tales


winter afternoon—
a rich layer of new snow
blanketing the earth
 
~~ ~~ ~~
 
In weary silence
she gazes into the flames,
seeking an omen.
 
~~ ~~ ~~
 
nothing fancier
than her cream-colored straw hat
with its pink ribbon
 
~~ ~~ ~~
 
A wooden clothespin—
she touches it to her tongue
and then to her palms.
 
~~ ~~ ~~
 
Over her shoulder
she tosses a tangerine,
hoping for good luck.
 
~~ ~~ ~~
 
Spiteful old women
hurl curses at their husbands
for small transgressions.
 
~~ ~~ ~~
 
Through a small window
she sees the plural of goose
landing on the pond.
 
~~ ~~ ~~
 
A life for herself—
no more peeling potatoes,
she thinks with a sigh.

 
Haiku © 2018 by Magical Mystical Teacher
 
More Sunday’s Whirligig #146
   
More Poetry Pantry #388 at Poets United