Blog Archives
Haibun: Pandemic
Last year was hard—it was brutal!—as the world endured the Covid-19 pandemic. Here a mother died, there a father, and somewhere else a whole family. Some of us lost our homes, because we couldn’t work. Some of us ended up sleeping under bridges, or in fields, or in other out-of-the-way places. We were desolate. We couldn’t reach out to each other for a hug or handshake because we were in lockdown, afraid for our lives. Nothing seemed to help. And then came harbingers of hope, bearing strange names: Pfizer, Moderna, AstraZeneca—vaccines to vanquish the virus! We offered our arms for a jab, and started to look beyond our nightmare, daring to hope that our world might someday be normal again.
Hidden mountain stream—
see, a doe and her fawn come
for the day’s first drink!
I Am a Poem
I am a poem.
A poem that says it needs to be famous,
but busies itself with mundane work.
A poem that sometimes acts as if it were on stage,
but usually cowers in the bedroom closet.
A poem that defies gravity like a trapeze artist swinging
through space, only to find no place to land.
A poem that wants to attend the School of Extraordinary Feats,
but after graduating would not know how to apply what
it has learned to ordinary life.
Who would read a poem like that?
More The Whirligig #319
More Writers’ Pantry #71 at Poets and Storytellers United
Five Haiku for the Frigid Season
1.
Come now, let us mourn
all things broken, chipped, and torn—
deepening winter.
2.
Winter loneliness—
who has skill enough to mend
my threadbare blue shirt?
3.
Winter drive to work—
on the bridge I see skid marks,
remnants of a crash.
4.
Itching to plant seeds,
I thumb through the catalog
that came in the mail.
5.
Bar of soap in hand,
I draw water for a bath—
midwinter pleasure.
More The Whirligig #306
More Haiku My Heart at Recuerda Mi Corazon
More Writers’ Pantry #58 at Poets and Storytellers United
Vases Made of Mud
Vases made of mud must pass
Quickly through the looking-glass;
They are bouncing with the strain.
The white pitcher groans again
In a rhythm dark and deep
Of a work that will not keep
Till your dallying is done.
See, bright smears of morning sun
Lie heavy on the table!
Sing of them, if you’re able,
Though your tongue may clang like brass—
Do not let this moment pass!
Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More Sunday’s Whirligig #240
More Pantry of Poetry and Prose #4 at Poets United
Haibun: Grief Work
My grief over my father’s death has become my life’s work. Some days I drink from a bitter cup. Other days I choose to spread my bread with honey. And sometimes I lay myself down on the anvil of sorrows and let the hammer fall, shaping me as it will. Sheer stubbornness drives me to try to understand why a tear leans into the wind, hoping to dry itself; or why the dead enter our world saying nothing, giving neither comfort nor counsel, but simply watching and waiting. So far, I have failed in my quest, but I will not quit. Stubbornness, remember?
Walking through the woods
on an autumn afternoon—
this is song enough.
More Sunday’s Whirligig #239
More Pantry of Poetry and Prose #3 at Poets United
Twice I Thought I Saw a Flame
Twice I thought I saw a flame
When the shapeless angel came.
Pure and bright she blazed near me;
In her hand she held a key.
“This unlocks your heart’s desire,
Be it water, earth, or fire.
You must choose what works for you,
Then will I your bidding do.”
Long I stood in awe and stared,
While her visage blazed and flared.
How I trembled, how I ached!
My flesh quivered and I quaked!
Then I spoke with fearful voice:
“This I ask, this is my choice:
Like you let me be a flame
Ever wilding, never tame.”
“Done!” she cried. “That I’ll allow!
I’ll set you ablaze right now!
Wear this holy fire in grace!
Every mortal, hide your face!”
Many years have passed since then,
Years beyond all mortal ken;
Still I flare and still I blaze,
And I will for endless days.
Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
Tanka Fest
~~ 1 ~~
in the next canyon,
a spacious place for camping—
cottonwood circle
where tired wanderers bed down
covering themselves with stars
~~ 2 ~~
on the granite floor
rivers of fresh blood flowing
from the killing spree—
scene of hell and damnation
the keening of the bereaved
~~ 3 ~~
the caressing warmth
of a single tear flowing
down her furrowed cheek—
the fire of her memories
thawing the ice within her
~~ 4 ~~
marshmallow eaters
their kayak beached for the night
gathering driftwood
enough for an all-night fire
half for warmth and half for fun
~~ 5 ~~
black cat dips one paw
into circles of sunshine
on the kitchen floor
pretending that a mouse feast
is simmering in the warmth
© 2015 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 209
