haibun

island

A haibun is an ancient Japanese form used by Basho and others. It is poetic prose with a haiku. There are Zen components to haibun in those who write them, but they are also just fun to do. I started up my daily writing practice, which does involve a walking meditation called a ginko and mindfulness.

Here is a short article on haibun and how to write one:

http://www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/haibun.htm


Between Tides

The most photographed part of the coast. Weston Beach, Point Lobos. Rocks like a moonscape. The minus tide reveals miniature worlds of feasting and famine. Beneath the eel grass, hermits claw for empty shells. An owl limpet protects its pasture of algae from invaders. Sculpins dart and dash, always returning to their own pool. Stars invade the crevices, seeking that slight entry point in a bearded mussel. All this, and yet motion seems still. The tide sucks back the waves.

foam born
a sea slug
hugs the edge

island

Commuting

Your words to me before I left, be with gratitude. The pelicans in V formation dip toward the waves, teasing the board bound surfers. The old grey barn held up by beams and lichen. A red tailed hawk sits atop a telephone pole, eyes fixed on a dark spot. The fields of strawberries where workers bend over picking the fruit. The cliffs rising above the shore, sheer and cut. The dazed racoon scrambles on the road, barely to the side in time.

and when I reach home
your thank you card
stamped and unopened

island

School's Out

The floor of my room holds the contents of the semester. Stacks of coffee stained books. Three bound readers filled with ink stained pages. Sheets of torn paper. A box of pens and post-its. Several old soda cans. Two half-filled backpacks. Change for the parking meter.

the Thai Buddha
on the window sill
bay meets horizon

island

The email comes silently shattering my day. I can't live with him and can't live without him.... It might as well be signed in blood. So the process begins. A phone call to her, no answer. A phone call to him, no answer. A phone call to the national hotline, redirected to the local hotline. Hours pass. Finally she calls back, alive, but crying. If you call this number no one will come knocking on your door. She hangs up. I wait, wondering who will get there first, her call or the call to the cops. The phone rings. My heart beats. A soft southern drawl. Christy from the crisis line, she says. Her call reassured them not to send in the reinforcements. For 24 hours. I can sleep one more night.

hugging my pillow
I stare up and out
the waxing gibbous moon