Haibun

WHR June 2015

Haibun

Jesus Chameleon

“ The joys of Spring: memorable second school trip to Kansai” (World Haiku Review)

The misty morning invites domesticated deer---air filled with thick exhaust fumes---the road is jammed with traffic---breakfast with miso-based soup and interesting “side orders”---a study-tour begins---jet lagged---itinerary---spring in the temperate region---extreme cold---beautiful and clear weather---”cherry blossoms” everywhere---Kansai---the mysterious Silver Pavilion---the world-famous Golden Pavilion!

sakura–

in every ones heart

the same flower

the burning hills...

long after the fire has burnt

smoke cleanses the soul

museums---

the gingerbread man

remains warm

blossoms in spring---

colors alternate

with each degree

Yesha Shah

SOLITARY SOJOURN

Time and again on this moonless December night the headlights of an odd passing vehicle zoom in, the tail lights fade out. Halogen lamp posts are few and distantly placed on the deserted street. Light hazed by the mist is fuzzy. On one side of this gently curving road there is a huge open ground sprouting wild shrubberies and a canal trench with shallow, stagnant water on the other. Rhythmic chirp of the crickets is the only sound except a constant static of high tension cables. She walks at a brisk pace, as brisk as her saree would allow. Cuddled close to her bosom, wrapped in a blanket is her few months old baby. Clutched in her hand, a polythene bag with pediatric medicine bottles. Startled by the sudden honking of a car, the baby starts crying. She latches the child onto her breast for pacification, all the while walking. A pair of young boys on a motorbike circle about her, rousing the engine on and off. The road tapers off towards a settlement of scattered shanties.

vermilion dawn—

a stray sunbeam finds

the dark corner

THRESHOLD

walking barefoot, hand in hand, on the silken sands of a sunset beach strewn with starfish;

building dream castles with wet sand;

writing our mortal names in a heart shape on the earth, immortal fragments of our transient lives;

pressing a conch shell to our ears turn by turn and listening to the melody of oceanic waves;

watching the metamorphosis of the sun from a scorching yellow sphere to a molten crimson semi circle, half submerged in the endless stretch of salinity at the dusky horizon all the while splintering its vibrant hues on the vast canvas of the sky...

Crumbs of wet sand in our clothes, sea breeze in our breath, salt on our skin, we delve into the depths of each others’ eyes and plunge to the bottom of each others’ heart.

If only we could live in the sometime someplace all our lives..

fading starlight..

I hang on to my

morning dream

Adelaide B. Shaw

INNISFREE GARDEN

Millbrook, NY

We went back to Innisfree today. One hundred fifty acres surrounding a lake, sectioned into "cup gardens". We begin on the path which circles the lake, but frequently meander up soft grassy slopes or stone steps, pausing at each vignette. We step over trickling water or cross on a narrow wooden bridge,get sprayed by mist from a water spout, listen to the gurgle as water splays down rocks and into a basin.

Butterflies, bumblebees, dragon flies, humming birds seek out the nectar on Joe Pye weed, black

eyed Susans, goldenrod, and other flowers secreted in between rocks. Tall grasses bend, swishing lightly, along the lake. Rock plinths and mounds create shadows and shape my

imagination. Lotus and water lilies color one end of the lake.

small ripples

from a dragonfly

a pause to rest

air bubbles

breaking through the lake's surface

all that lies hidden

A heron poised on a lily pad maintains its position long after I take its picture. Ferns fill the bogs. We cross a bridge spanning a channel in the lake and continue on the path, now bulging with tree roots.

uphill walk

the rough path eases

into the promised view

sultry heat

cooling reflections

in the lake

THE DINER

Just as first constructed–chrome, Formica, pale shades of mauve and gray accented with darker maroon on the counter stools and the trim of the booths. Juke boxes still at each booth. Although not working, they still have the song- lists of more than 50 years ago.

If you want a big meal or a light snack it's available from 6:00 a.m. until 10:00 p.m. every day.

Three o'clock in the afternoon is a quiet time to come. Coffee and maybe a pastry, my notebook, a book to read, and a picture window view of the village's main street are there waiting.

connecting the past

a heavy mug of coffee

to warm my hands

SUMMER DUSK

The way the light dims, the clouds glowing pink, gradually fading to a light gray against a darkening sky. The silhouettes of tall pines against the sunset glow. The first star, the first firefly. Crickets

and tree frogs tuning up to reach their full voice, keeping their timeless rhythm uninterrupted by barking dogs or passing cars. The fragrance and soft light of a citronella candle to keep mosquitoes at

bay. Sometimes there is a breeze to stir the zebra grasses and pines, sending a gentle wave of sound and a light touch on my bare arms.

nearly dark

an owl tells me

it’s time to go in

Dr Brijesh Raj

Thunder Storm

Wet wheels swoosh on the tarmac, spraying water. The fruit bats are invisible this night. No squawking or fighting over bread fruit.

There’s a welcome freshness to the air, outside the misted window I look down from. The city today is centrally air-conditioned!

I try to capture the lightning on my phone camera. The black blank screen suddenly reveals the trees and skyline in a burst of powder blue. Branched lightning caught on my HTC, twice.

A few stroll slowly along the bay, revelling in the interim relief from a sixty year summer high.

An almond leaf lets go a single raindrop.

The bus stop’s kerosene pump is off this night, no longer befouling my ears and nostrils. A lone tom cat yowls for dinner. The storm recedes slowly.

My forced break over, I thank my hosts and bring myself back to the business of finding a cab home. Traffic once again crowds my consciousness.

The trees and the city are washed clean.

washed away

the gossamer dreams

of garden spiders