The Beckoning

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A July moon softly glows through my window-screen, barricaded, unlike the night's breeze that cools my skin from the day's humidity and shapes the draperies into ghost-like apparitions.  Beyond the sill, Willow beckons me with her long, pliant branches and dangling, whispering leaves tinkling like gentle wind chimes.  I tiptoe down hallway, past my parent's room.   Find me beneath Milky Way, Dippers, and North Star, face upturned.  Feel a bit dizzy with the immensity of it all.  I run, steal myself beneath Willow's feathery strands, the tickling about my shoulders and neck a sensation comforting me as I listen to the cicadas and toads (both of which I am afraid) hopefully chirping far off in bush and field and not here beneath umbrella'd security.  Silhouetted, an owl hoots from my old tree fort, its large stout limb juts out into the field and I imagine the owl feels as adventurous as I do midday imagining I'm a cowboy or Indian; whichever takes my fancy.  I wonder, does the owl ever dream of being something other than he is?  I tiptoe towards split rail fence for a better view, climb up and lean over just as a flash of shadow and whir of wings sends my heart a-flutter; sends me scampering back inside.  Screen door slams, my backside hits pillow and mattress as Mother calls my name and Father gets out of bed as the July moon softly glows through my window-screen.

Moonlit shadows glide
Caution is thrown to the wind
Young rabbits tempt fate

by Margaret Bednar, March 30, 2020

This is linked with "dVerse Poets, Haibun Monday - Snapshots of our Lives"

Take an old autobiographical poem and rework it into a haibun.  HERE is the one I used.

From a Victorian Inn

From a Victorian Inn

Moonless it may be, but this midnight hour from my Victorian window shimmers and shines with the vibrance of an apparition as Christmas still sways from porch and pine. Paislied curtain pulled aside, I see pomp & circumstance have been stripped from hydrangeas, find I’m charmed by their skeletal remains bobbing and dancing upon January’s brisk breeze.  They will bloom again, as will I, glorious spring will surge through roots and veins with the circle of life, yet this moment solitude is the canary released from its cage, wraps me with wonder as I stand alone, tenderly tuck last year away and turn towards the new.

My hands plant the seeds
that darkness will envelope
but never contain.

By Margaret Bednar, January 7, 2020

This is linked with “Poets and Storytellers United - Pantry #1”

“dVerse Haibun Monday”- ponder new beginnings, and “Skylover Word List” - I used 7 of 10 words listed 

The Monarch

The Monarch

Molten gold, mango, and amber dance, dip, and catch filtered light of afternoon's departing storm.  A miniature Van Gogh outlined with black ink splashes grey sky like Vincent's irises saturate the dirt.  The hawk first stole my breath, soared low, shadowed amongst evergreens, snatched something from a branch and hurtled swiftly downward to consume its prey.  I'm startled, torn between majesty of the previous moment and violence of the next.  And now, seconds later its as if I'm being presented with a peace offering; watch as Monarch dissolves into a dot, continuing its journey along Mountain's rim.

stormy skies belie
the promise of a fresh breeze
and sun's swift return.

by Margaret Bednar, October 2, 2019

This is linked with "dVerse Poets Pub - Haibun Monday: Insect"

and "Poets United - Poets Pantry#496"

Haibun - "January"

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Wolf Moon slowly releases her silver spell, spills into this morning's cradle of whispering golden light, my mind unspooling last year’s worries, replacing them with crisp, clean pages of fresh slanted scrawl.  Glance through window at the birch whose lacey corsets are frayed and parchment thin.  January's warmth settles upon their delicate arms, skywardly raised.  Imagine them moonlit, slender spirits coming undone, slipping outside their bark, disrobing, draping remnants upon crisp, cool breeze.

A Carolina wren lands upon a branch, nervously looks around, leery of red-tails and kestrels.  Offers a tweet.  It isn't a full chorus of finches, mocking, or bluebirds, but I appreciate his offering.  My pen scratches surface of paper, words slowly yawning, stretching as I try them out.  I want to learn calligraphy this year, perfect my quilting, join a birding group, explore waterfalls that grace this Blue Ridge, take up ballroom dancing...

From the corner of my eye, another flutter.  It's a tufted titmouse offering a melodious "peter, peter, peter".  I'm glad feeder is filled, snow has melted, sun is shining.  But around the corner, a draping of winter-white looms, which I'll ignore; today's for raising one's face toward the sun.  For rejuvenation.

Wolf Moon's silver spell

releases forest spirits,

unspools last year's fears

This is linked with "dVerse - Haibun Monday - January" 

Also linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - The Tuesday Platform". 

A Diva's Exit (or lack thereof) A Haibun poem

I believe "deceitful" is a bit harsh, prone to believe she's "full of herself" with her frosty farthingale draping my mountainside.  Belle's of the ball rarely want an affair to end, continue cavorting upon the dance floor desiring all eyes upon them.  I enjoyed following her buttermilk skies and mare's tails waltzing across peaks and valleys, smiled as her bare dew-kissed limbs escorted me trailside, welcomed her cool greeting grazing my cheeks each morn.

Yet, appreciation has its limits and mine's been met.  An elegant exit is as important as a grand entry and she has flubbed hers, returned for a third encore absent applause.  A diva's temper tantrum is never pretty and she's outdone herself.  I gently try to prop up a virginal bent beauty, ruby flush yet to fade.  Gaze around as other's have followed suit; no match for the wrath of last season's debutante whose flirtatious winks and beguiling smiles have finally grown old.  My infatuation a thing of the past.

A graceful exit requires elegant bows - tulips take center stage.

by Margaret Bednar, April 18, 2018

I reworked the haiku.  This is not the original one posted. I write them in a single line reminiscent of the Japanese style. 

farthingale:  also known as hoops.  It originated as a modest-sized mechanism for holding long skirts away from one's legs, to stay cooler and keep from tripping.

mares tails & buttermilk skies - various cloud formations/descriptions

This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Write Here. Write Now" (Scribble it)

with "dVerse Poets Pub - Haibun Monday - Chijitsu - Lingering Day"

and NaPoWriMo 2018 (30 poems in 30 days)


As most of us know, many are still awaiting for spring to arrive or at least be given a chance to "dance".   We had an icy rain here with a touch of snow mid April ... that's crazy. 

"Reflection "A Haibun with a title :)

Another "how" I write poetry is from my photographic
images - this one is a blended image of idyllic days
on Ocracoke Island - and will hopefully be a
poem in a few days.

Reflection (a Haibun with a title :)

When I was a child, I loved a willow tree.  She embraced me with cascading, filtered-green light, offered me a haven where butterflies were fairies and sprites.  I peeked out into the world and retreated safely within her golden embrace when the season turned.  I think poetry starts here, although I wouldn't write a word or fashion a rhyme for nearly forty years.

Perhaps verse took root when I lost myself in Garland's voice; me a young girl believing beyond the rainbow was possible; eyes closed, hammock rocking gently, cat curled into my side, singing along prayerfully, quietly, low notes almost a vibrato.

Maybe poesy blossomed one summer's day when I walked our lot line to the river the Suak and Fox called the Sinnissippe, where I dipped my toes in the slow moving waters, closed my eyes feeling history clear through my fingertips.  Touched my hands to the old oaks, wondering if Black Hawk ever leaned against these very trees that dip and sway beside river's edge.

Or possibly it was a humid day beneath Grandmother's cherry tree, the perfumed shade and  stickiness of the sinfully sour temptations I popped into my mouth - likening it to transgressions, forgiveness.  My first metaphor?

For me, poetry is rarely a bursting desire or a secret unearthed, more often a pausing, a quietude that invites reflection.  Occasionally it replicates labor pains so intense I swear it's the last one, but after a few days my eye sees an image my heart wants to hold or relive, and well, I've rarely been recognized for my discipline and restraint.


Fairy tales and mortality etched on parchment and stone; seasons change.

by Margaret Bednar

linked with "dVerse Poets Pub - Haibun Monday - Who? What? Why?"  What, Who fashioned us to be a poet - Why?  I've extracted from a few old poems I've written over the years as, after a few attempts, I realized I've already expressed myself to the best of my ability in answer to this question. So a bit of a refashioned poem from several of my earlier writes.

I've been writing since 2010 - My son probably inspired me to finally gather the courage to write - I think an artist is often a bit shy at first to "put it out there".   One of my very first poems was an acrostic poem written November 10, 2010:

Mother's Pearls Remembered 

"May" a Haibun

Flowering Cherry Tree in Brooklyn's Botanic Garden
I LOVE the Japanese Hill & Pond & Cherry Walk

You hold my hand as we amble beneath fleeting, fragile petals of double blossoming florets flirting and flushing as April's lavender and lace gives way to May.  Lose count of gnarled cherry branches sprouting eager blooms, of welcoming songbirds' chorus, of bees lending their buzz to this season's ensemble.  Admire blood-red buds whose heavy bells will soon turn insistent faces toward the sun, drinking in sea colored skies.  Delight as tulip, forsythia and South African bulbs teasingly tickle soil's surface along meandering path, ready to burst forth and bedazzle.  Try kicking pebbles from our sandals as grass tickles our toes.  Close our eyes, lakeside, hear the ducks splash, find myself humming as we walk within a Monet masterpiece. Stop to embrace the aroma which is like a kiss.  Find it's easy to fall in love beneath crowns of glorious pink.

Fragile first blooms flush beneath sea colored-skies as the drake seeks a mate

by Margaret Bednar, March 5, 2018


This is for "dVerse Poets Pub - Haibun Monday - No Ke Me (Tree Buds)"  I wrote a poem more about "first blossoms"... and then as usual went back to read directions and realize "tree buds" was the theme.  Hopefully this is acceptable.  I took the liberty of reliving walking in the beautiful gardens of Prospect Park in Brooklyn during early spring.  I will soon be traveling to South Carolina and their buds and blooms arrive much earlier than in NYC.   A few of these lines are snagged from multiple poems I've written over the years and I added new ones as well ... So it is a re-worked, refreshed poem, the style of course is Haibun which lends it a whole new feel I think.

"In Remembrance"

In Remembrance

Damp and dreary today dawns, settles 'round my shoulders with a weary sigh.  Mo(u)rning mists my glasses as I shuffle through leaves fast becoming grey; contemplate life slipping away silently without fanfare.  No trumpet call, no pretentiousness; just color ebbing, leaving behind something once vibrantly splendid.  Even the lake's silvery stillness indulges my mood, reflects an egret's gliding grace; angelic white wings soothing as a sweetly sung southern hymn.  Canoes stacked, red, blue, green upon yellow, almost garish, hunker down for winter's bite yet able to yearn for spring's gentle caress and summer's bold laughter - but not these leaves.  They must dissolve into the earth from which the came.  I pick one up.  Pocket it.  Hesitant to let go.  Find myself looking back, remembering the glory that was.

A thousand todays I've walked, yet yesterday's greying bloom lingers.

by Margaret Bednar, February 19, 2018


An English haiku is usually 17 syllables (three lines with syllables 5-7-5) but some websites say it should be less in order for it to be tighter and more similar to a Japanese haiku.  I aim for about 17 - the Japanese haiku aren't always strict to their syllable count so I give myself a bit of leeway as well.  It should hint at at season and usually the topic is love.  I prefer to write it all in one line, not three, like the Japanese do.

I believe sorrow is best dealt with taking one day at a time and eventually becomes a bit comforting if we let it - the memories hopefully bring a smile to one's face instead of tears.

This poem is dedicated to Galen Haynes (aka G-Man) who passed away in December 2014.  I miss this intelligent and generously kind man's presence here in the blogging world.  I wrote this poem back in 2014, but I did tweak it a bit today:  added the grey reference which I think works well along with a few other minor changes, changed the format to a haibun, and added my (as always) feeble attempt at a haiku.

This is linked with "dVerse Poets Pub Haibun Monday - The beauty & the misery of grey"

Haibun - Patchwork Poetry

Quilted reflections patch their way onto the page as if outlined with silken threads, scrolled - more often typed.  Sometimes the fabric is fragile, like a baby bird in my hand, fallen from its nest.  It doesn't survive other than in desperate words, hand-made paper splashed with tears.  Other-times harmoniously sewn thoughts nestle between the covers of my soft leather journal, pentameter becomes sashing for metaphors, photographs pattern pieces that inspire it all.

Quilts comfort
butterflies & lavender nourish
poetic germinations

by Margaret Bednar


This is for "dVerse Poets Pub - Haibun Monday - Why?"  It was a HARD challenge and I'm not sure I did it correctly - I tried.  We were to write the WHY of our style.

I think I approach my style as I do making my quilts (the quilts above are NOT mine) very visually - usually with photographs I take and then pair them with my memories (complimenting fabric :)...

“English-language haiku tend to be written in three lines, corresponding to the metrical division of Japanese haiku, but Japanese haiku are actually usually printed in a single vertical column. By way of analogy with this form, poets such as Matsuo Allard and Marlene Mountain began writing English haiku in a single horizontal line—and thanks to their efforts that form has become established in English as the major alternative to the typical three-liner”.
   
If you are interested and want to read more, click HERE.  I found the comments interesting - I like to stick as close to 17 syllables as possible but will go over or under... I like to HINT at a season but NEVER name it.  

Also... this "HERE" was a nice season words (kigo) list for Japanese poetry - from the 1997-78 Haiku Journal... my question if anyone knows - are words like germinate and any plant (like clover) kilo words as well?  

The Wooded Trail - Haibun

The farm pond is silent this morning; the boardwalk's draped with overhanging limb, overgrown bushes, and the vocal aspirations of many a songbird grace forest's edge.  I brush aside cobwebs, try not to imagine the spider's size that wove it, hope it's not crawling up my back.  It's cooler beneath the canopy although I've traded heat for bugs.

Everything's still green but the occasional leaf ferries its way downward, twirls slowly, grudgingly announces a new season's about to begin.  Two tree trunks angle across the path; both look quite old with deep ridges and dark gray bark - even riding my horse I couldn't pass as their needled branches make an effective barrier.

I turn back towards the pasture and ponies familiarizing themselves with each other.  Soon we will be exploring this new terrain of rolling hills together.  Supposedly there is no virgin land left in North Carolina; all timber having been clear cut two or three times.  I'm impressed with the size before me, yet how magnificent to have experienced the height and breadth of their ancestors.  I look forward to the high drama when skeletal limbs expose themselves and sunlight settles upon forest's floor.


the farm pond reflects a red leaf's vulnerability

by Margaret Bednar, September 5, 2017

The above video is a bit long - but I hope you enjoy it.  Our horse is Oberon, the buckskin Quarter Horse.   We are boarding at a new barn - Oberon is making new friends and enjoying the pasture - my daughter had a hard time bringing him in the other day.  The farm was left vacant for a year before the new owners purchased it - and a lot of work needs to be done - fences, arena, stalls, trails - but they have done tremendous work in just two weeks - can't wait until the trails are cut back and ready to be ridden!

This is linked with "dVerse Haibun Monday - Komorebi"

and "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - The Tuesday Platform"

Beneath a Batik sky...

Beneath a batik sky, everything's whitewashed in translucent shades of aqua, turquoise, and teal; shapes being reduced to inky silhouettes.  Humidity cloaks me, but welcoming the island breeze I wear this frock with ease even as sweat trickles betwixt my shoulder blades.  My feet turn towards the harbor, gem colored kayaks beaconing.  Soon develop a steady rhythm, skirt Silver Lake's circumference, glide by weatherworn piers and pilings, pass muster with austere white crowned sentinels of broad wings and oversized bill; grateful for the privilege of safe passage.  Find myself refreshed and walking beside a border of cypress trees, whose contour of whorls and swirls seemingly place me inside a Van Gogh landscape although absent a sky of churning, patterned brushstrokes; instead it is scrimmed with gossamer clouds more reminiscent of Whistler.  Meet up with my man and little man admiring Pamlico Sound, find my heart bursting as brightly as the marigold star nestling in the sliver of tangerine sky as it winks once more and slips softly into the sea.

Turquoise and marigold accent my world
as ocean's breeze soothes a tempest

by Margaret Bednar, August 21, 2017

This is linked with "dVerse Poets Pub - Haibun Monday - What did you do?"  Also linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Tuesday Platform"

A Haibun is one of my favorite poetic styles - although I do struggle with the follow-up Haikus.  We just returned from a last summer "hurrah" - a week on our beloved Outerbanks - Ocracoke Island.  It is the beginning of hurricane season, and although there were a touch of storms, they came and went.  It made the waves a lot of fun - although we didn't venture very far out and my son wore a life jacket and a boogy board attached to his wrists.

Haibun - Enchanted

I pull my jacket tightly about hunched shoulders, hunker into woolen scarf, await for sprinkles of snow to descend as I gaze out from within, pole lights shining like stars, the inky blackness a comforting scrim.  This enchanted world offers up a princess and white horse gracefully floating before me, triumphant banners of breath-like clouds and pony-tails trail behind them.  Not a sound but for the gentle rhythm of the horse's three-beat gait and gentle snorts as in unison they circle about the edge of this snow-globe night, damsel and steed seemingly about to sprout wings, fly up and away to the land of the gods...


To be blanketed
with snow crystals: magical
to fly above: joy

by Margaret Bednar, December 13, 2016

I invite you to listen:  https://soundcloud.com/margaretbednar/haibun-enchanted

This is for "dVerse Haibun Monday - And to all a goodnight"  My Haiku is not good (they are not easy) and I might come back and give it some more thought.   For now, it is what it is :)

Also linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Tuesday Platform"

Haibun - Indian Summer

Carol Law Conklin - "Adirondack Autumn Sunset"

Wispy-white mare's tails swish sky's blue this noon as heated fingers reach through poplar stripped branches and tickle arms and legs, bare.  It's days like today, after a frost or two, that pony and I would become sure-footed mustang and Indian, riding bareback through stubbled cornfield and quarry, descending into time, scouting for arrowheads.  It's days like today that cradle me, morning mist no longer blankets uplifted crowns of gold but hovers over the expanse of denuded fields where I imagine tepees once stood and Cherokee raced dug-out canoes along the French Broad and Swannanoa.  It's days like today, as goldfinches pick sunflowers dry, sunlit logs buoy river otters and turtles, and evening's pink veil deepens to purples and reds that I reminisce and as swiftly as the seasons change, anticipate renewal.


A hard frost descends
welcomes hazy days, clear nights
and peace-filled slumber

by Margaret Bednar, November 28, 2016

You are invited to listen to me read my poem:  https://soundcloud.com/margaretbednar/haibun-indian-summer

Pony & I became sure-footed mustang and Indian...

This challenge is linked (late) with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Artistic Interpretations with Margaret - Carol Law Conklin Batik Artist."  Carol Law Conklin is a Batik Artist with a wide variety of creations she highlights and sells on her Website, Amity Farm Batik, and Etsy Store.  She has a Facebook page and I also enjoyed watching her video batik "how to" tutorials.

Not supposed to name a Haibun, but I think of this one as "Indian Summer"   This is also linked with "dVerse Poets Pub: Haibun Monday - Free for All"

and... "Imaginary Garden with Real Toad's - The Tuesday Platform".

Note:  mares tails:  Cirrus uncinus is a type of cloud derived from Latin meaning "curly hooks". Also known as mares' tails, these clouds are generally sparse in the sky and very thin.


An interesting Article about the rivers and creeks that wind their way through Asheville, NC:

Haibun - An Island's Secrets

Ocracoke has secrets.  For those who have time, she may unveil herself slowly while her tide plays with the moon and her sun rises with an avian chorus.  She never expects a routine.  The Algonkin Indians fished and gathered; pirates Vane, Rackham, and Teach rationed, recovered, and rested; a fishing village sprouted.  Now, as then, the estuaries, salt marshes, and grasslands quietly speak, soothe.  Broad-leaved evergreen trees once canopied large swaths, now cool a few paths, share roots with the Tidal Red Cedar and Live Oaks; gnarled, ancient silhouettes that still rest against a horizon far-flung.  My favorite shrub is the Magnolia Virginiana or sweet-bay (some say swamp-bay but that negates the romance).   Ocracoke’s voice today is slowly being eroded by nature, more quickly by man.  Some say one mad hurricane will sweep all away.  Until then, I'll kayak past Teach’s Hole, bask in loblolly pine's leaning shade, walk white-sand beaches wind-swept clean and crisp, tilt my ear for incoming breeze upon heated neck and perhaps capture a few of her blue trembling secrets before my footprints wash away.

Horizon and dune cradle a blue trembling(s)
promise to cleanse secrets and souls


by Margaret Bednar, April 12, 2016


You are Invited to Listen:  https://soundcloud.com/margaret-elizabeth-bednar/haibun-an-islands-secrets


My attempt to fulfill the requirements for "dVerse - Haibun #11" - Reach Out"  \

Also linked up with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - The Tuesday Platform"

Haibun - "Blossom(ing)"

"When cherry blossoms
scatter -
no regrets"  
(Haiku by Issa)

A hush often surrounds true beauty, almost as if proclaiming perfection, it might elude the admirer.  The wise do not snip budding branches, place them in a vase, but patiently welcome morning's fragrant breeze to lift one's hair. This Easter morn, I see God in the humble tumble of blushing florets pirouetting gracefully to garden's sweet-scented ground.   Imagine these petals my sins, forgiven;  my shame, my indifference no longer a stumbling block.  My potential no longer contained; I feel as if to burst, but quietly walk away, filled with grace.

Beneath grace I blossom(ing)
florets humbly fall. 

by Margaret Bednar, March 29, 2016

This is for "dVerse Haibun Monday - #10 Hanami"

and "The Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - The Tuesday Platform"

Contemplating sin this Easter. (and of course, the forgiveness of)  As a Catholic we believe in mortal and venial sin.  Venial sin is "everyday" sin that we might allow to "pile up" - put off asking forgiveness.  But when we do this - we also become indifferent, lukewarm - so to speak - and we don't live up to our potential.   This is where my thoughts were when pondering this poem...   I wanted to through the word "patience" in as well as I believe this is one of the most important virtues - a waiting upon the Lord.  It's a humbling.  

Haibun - "Scavanged"

It's just about daybreak.  A silvery haze shrouds this weathered boardwalk's path toward Pamlico Sound, cedar waxwings and yellow-rumped warblers swoop sandhill's shallow peaks and valleys, while piping plovers and killdeer warily distance themselves along tide's edge.  No offense taken as we descend sand-swept steps, become easy targets for ocean's bully and bluster.  My son's not a pirate, nor interested in gold, but he seeks treasure non-the-less: whelk, cigar and slipper shells ker-plunk into his bright red pail and he's blimey well surprised when he scavenges an orange-tipped Blue Crab claw; informs me it's a female's as the "nails are polished".  I scan the sand for a Scotch Bonnet, the state shell, ironically a rare find; settle for a battered olive shell fragment and the swirly tip of a moon snail.  Glance ahead, my son challenges ocean's waves to catch his fleeting figure as he scatters a group of Royal Terns skyward. 

Hazy sun, swooping Cedar Waxwings, Blue Crab claws scavenged

Gems & shiny baubles blimey well forgotten.

by Margaret Bednar, March 14, 2016

You're invited to Listen:  https://soundcloud.com/margaretbednar/haibun-scavenged

I'm trying to understand haiku - I don't like the "American 5-7-5" so I'm trying to lean towards traditional Japanese haiku - yet obviously putting a personal twist on it with a nod toward a "one sentence" poem with a word that "transitions" it at the end of the first...   My seasonal reference is the "Cedar Waxwings" as they are birds that appear on Ocracoke only during the winter months.  Blackbeard the pirate was also killed off the coast of Ocracoke so I hinted at this with conjuring up treasure and using a pirate term "blimey" 

p.s. Female Blue Crab claws are "painted" orange at the tips - that's one way to identify the gender.

Haiku:

the Japanese poem is typically written in a single line, not three...

Add to this the fact that the Japanese haiku is not merely a syllabic form, but is a nature poem-- in fact, not merely a nature poem, but explicitly a seasonal poem.  Traditionally, a haiku is "in the moment"-- present tense-- without metaphor, but simply observation; and also by tradition is not an imagined scene, but a direct experience by the poet.

Haiku also have that "kireji" that I mentioned, a "cutting word" that cuts a haiku into two parts of five and twelve syllables (on). English doesn't have explicit "cutting words," but a traditional haiku in English will have a distinct pause, often made explicit with punctuation (e.g., a dash or a colon) at the end of either the first line (assuming it's written in three lines), or the second, thus cutting it into two pieces of either five and twelve, or twelve and five, syllables.

The Haiku Society of America now defines a haiku simply as "a short poem that uses imagistic language to convey the essence of an experience of nature or the season intuitively linked to the human condition" -- note the fact that they have given up on the 5-7-5 form, and don't even keep the tradition of writing in three lines (nor, for that matter, the requirement for a seasonal reference.).

Even in Japan, modern haiku poets often have given up the explicit seasonal reference-- and don't always write in the seventeen on, either. But, to be fair, they have a few centuries head start on us, and must be getting pretty tired of what can said in seventeen on using the list of allowed kigo and kireji words.

Linked with "dVerse - Haibun Monday #9"

Haibun - "Bitter Kiss"

Prospect Park, NYC

Hills undulate gently upon a greensward necklaced by chestnut, white poplar, and oak, where children's laughter and songbirds fill the air above Long Meadow; unheard by the jogger as he labors past, eyes focused straight ahead.  Teenage boys toss a football, shirts inside-out instead of skins as wind's picking up and winter's a tease a way, fall's labor crunching beneath their tennis shoes.  Silhouetted, the trees stand vulnerable, bare but for a few golden leaves unable to provide protection for a couple's final, farewell kiss.


The chestnut, poplar, and black oak brace for wind's bitter kiss
tastes of goodbye upon brittle, fallen leaves.

by Margaret Bednar, March 1, 2016


an excellent link explaining the true nature of a haiku...  "A Philosophy of Haiku"  and what I can understand of Haibun is a prose written paragraph in a "concise, imagistic haikai style and has one or more haiku after it... ?

.. not sure my paragraph is "haikai" in style but it is what it is :)

I have walked Prospect Park in Brooklyn a number of times and there is always so much to observe.


Linked with "dVerse - Haibun Monday #8"

also linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - The Tuesday Platform"