Haibun 36

breaching the third wall

talking to yourself is seen by some people as a form of madness. i dont see it that way at all. if you dont talk to someone else you will never learn a thing about them. and the same is true of yourself. you need to know the real person and we are verbal animals so talking to yourself is the one sure path to clear understanding. after all you are the best manifestation of your life.

my dance card
every single dance
includes me

Haibun 35

statues made of matchsticks

you dont need to tear down a statue to destroy it. whoever the subject of the bronze and stone collection they become irrelevant myths in the crush of history. “Who is that guy on the horse mommy”. “That is the guy who lost the war dear.”

the brass plate
doesnt tell the whole story
war memorial

Haibun 34

the familiar becomes foreign

the time it takes to trust is most often measured in years. we circle each others lives. measure the other persons responses. after building a friendship the worst thing that can happen is for it to abruptly end. that person has seen you from both afar and up close. your weak points so completely exposed. so when a relationship fails you have very little warning and no understanding of what is next.

the quiet way
reflections change shapes
in the breeze

Haibun 32

leaning on your velvet door

the whole hippie thing was short lived thankfully but we deserve a small amount of credit for ‘things’ that would have happened anyway. at least that is what this old hippie thinks.

spinning
my plastic globe
the moon at the window    motionless

Haibun 30

transcending the metaphysical

not sure how to put this  so i will do it  there is hole where the dark matter lives in my being  who is it  what is it  no idea  when i find out i wont tell a soul

 
my hand
waves in front of my eyes
to special music

 

Experimental Haibun that most likely will not be published!

Haibun 30

Two Tiny Haibun

 

the substance of forgotten things

i glance at the light shade. it has tassels on it that remind me of my grandmother.

your fingers can not touch me and yet i move

aurora borealis spillway

the rain has created a channel in my backyard. a small path of fog hovers over the water.

not yet autumn and the northern lights have hidden the stars

 

Published on a Poet’s Blog!