lonely or alone is a choice

Linking to Carpe Diem Haiku Kai‘s “loneliness” haibun prompt.

 

My husband and I don’t sleep together anymore. Yes, it happened slowly and yet it was by choice…my husband’s but I influenced him. As newlyweds buying furniture, I encouraged him to pick out a recliner but, not wanting to be a “lazy boy” by association, he declined.  

For years, I was a poor sleeper who desperately sought rest. I complained if awakened when hubby worked late (often), rose early (sometimes), or got up during night to check livestock (seasonal). My alert sensory apparatus took intense interest in all these nocturnal comings and goings. Worries about my husband’s apparent workaholism aggravated my insomnia. I was a co-dependent sleeper to a man who had little appreciation for circadian rhythms. 

Fast forward to time our middle son broke his leg and the doctor suggested he sleep in a recliner with his leg raised. I called my husband from the surgery center. “Honey, if you ever  wanted a recliner, now would be the time to buy one. Why don’t you go pick one out?” He did; it would be a life-changing decision.

Our son’s recovery led to my husband’s discovery…that recliner was comfortable! He could fall asleep to a movie without me grumbling about noise in bed. When calving season came, he would get up during the night, check cows, and spend remaining hours of darkness in the chair so as not to wake the queen. It eventually became a habit since we both slept better.

On vacation, camping or otherwise, we enjoy sleeping together…time apart seems to have a “honeymoon effect” when we reunite. And my husband knows he’s welcome to visit anytime!

 

ships pass in the night

Unknown

wallpaperup.com

farmer snores in recliner

dear wife sleeps in peace

 

spiritual connection

 

Prayer is sharing an intimate conversation with God.

 

open the scripture

listen, study, meditate

speak response from heart

 

 

 

 


“One bun” (haibun of one line of prose plus haiku) in response to CDHK prompt.

 

logo-napowrimo

postcard of barefoot life

Chèvre at Carpe Diem Haiku Kai prompts us to write a “kikobun” (traveling haibun) on “gypsy” theme. Here’s my interpretation!


 

In my dream, I’m captured as a young girl by gypsies while visiting Europe. I leave walking trail to pick wild flowers in wooded area and am taken away by Romani people in a brightly painted wagon pulled by dappled horse. We wander the Van Gogh landscape of hilly vineyards and loose haystacks humped in fields, finding temporary day work for local farmers. Every evening, we circle round the flickering campfire, listening to lively songs and loud stories. I join in the dances, wearing my head scarf, peasant blouse and flowing skirt; barefoot in the dirt. 

 

gold bangle bracelets

gypsy smiles flash in firelight

accordion plays

 

 

1agypsygirl004

free vintage clip art

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

bah humbug!

As I grow older, my faith in humanity slowly shrivels. Man’s heart is selfish, proud, and violent. It’s been that way since the beginning but we all want to believe differently. We so desperately want to think better of ourselves and our loved ones but we too can go “there” (whatever evil direction “there” may be). I’ve been hurt most often and most deeply by the one I thought loved me most (or, at least, that I loved most). And I have hurt those I claim to love. Our love and compassion are so limited but our capacity for anger and hatred so large. Man feeds on violence: Rome had its gladiator entertainment, there has been war and genocide throughout human history, our “civilized” society kills the innocent in the womb and produces individuals that go on shooting rampages. I’m sure a hundred years from now, if mankind survives itself, people will look back and consider us “barbaric”.

 

blood red tulip buds

bulbs split, leaf swords thrust upward

blossoms burst open

 

 


Mish asks us to write about “faith” in broad sense for haibun Monday at dVerse Poets.

 

logo-napowrimo

palms for alms

I am that beggar on the ancient road of cobbled stones in Jerusalem, begging alms in the city of the king, near David’s tomb. The Passover crowds pass by me on their way through the golden gate to the Temple mount, singing songs of ascent. I limp out of the chaotic throng, pressing my back against the stone wall and clutching my empty cup. What is that I hear? Shouts of “Hosanna, save us”! Now I see ecstatic children waving palm branches before a rabbi astride a young horse; no, he rides a humble donkey. As they pass, Jesus looks into my eyes; a gaze that overwhelms me with compassion.  I pick up a palm frond as the shofar sounds the call to worship: “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.”

 

crowds shout hosannas

rejoice in the coming king

my cup overflows

 

palm-leaf-1370948

 

royalty free stock photo

 

 

 

poet’s bio notes

(Link to dVerse Poets)

 

summer thoughts flutter

capture words like butterflies

netted poetry

 

My love of poetry began with a book ordered from Weekly Reader in late elementary school, Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle. I read and re-read this collection of contemporary poems. Besides being a voracious reader, I enjoyed writing. I remember writing my own chapter book about a dachshund named Brandy.

In high school, I delighted in the poetic words of Ogden Nash, e.e. cummings, and Shel Silverstein. I memorized the lyrics of musicians like Neil Diamond, Elton John, and John Denver (living in Colorado). Words fed my dreams.

My paternal grandfather loved poetry. He could recite Longfellow’s “The Village Blacksmith” to us. When he passed, I treasured his timeworn volume of Edgar Allen Poe. Inspired, I purchased the complete works of Emily Dickinson to read.

As a young mother, I submitted a few poems to Welcome Home magazine. Later,  I discovered the blogosphere through devotional writers like Ann Voskamp. Then I followed a friend who endured a difficult foreign adoption process, blogging her feelings and experiences. While reading her blog, I contemplated writing my own.

With a busy farm and family, I wanted to keep my posts brief…a poetry blog! I dug up and tweaked a few old poems and published them as “a poem in my pocket” on WordPress in 2012, the same year I became a grandmother.  For fun, I signed up for an online poetry writing class. I read Billy Collins and Luci Shaw.

My ears like rhyme and rhythm but my ideas usually flow as free verse or haiku. I feel compelled to write my thoughts and challenged to try prompts from various sources, particularly d’Verse Poetics and Carpe Diem Haiku Kai. I hope my blog is a spot of beauty in a sometimes ugly world. Poetry is a creative outlet for me, a personal retreat from the busy mundaneness of life.

 

“There is nowhere that a person can find a more peaceful and trouble-free retreat than in his own mind…So constantly give yourself this retreat, and renew yourself. ”   — MARCUS AURELIUS

weathered pastels

Kristjaan at Carpe Diem Haiku Kai inspires “springtime haibun” challenge…

Two years ago we invited our five grandchildren and their parents for Easter dinner after Resurrection Sunday worship. We already enjoyed warmer spring temperatures and tulip bulbs sprouted in the garden. A delicious meal was planned featuring honeyed ham with favorite side dishes. The mothers laid out their children’s best clothes with frills and bowties in anticipation of the next day’s celebration.

During the night, it snowed a wet blanket on the greening lawn and dirt farmyard. Plans for our first annual Easter egg hunt had to modified over the protests of the children, who were soothed by the fruity taste of jellybeans. The rabbit tracks across the waiting garden disappeared with the melting snow. New life persists and now nine grandkids are budding on the branches of our family tree.

IMG_0644

photo by lynn

 

wet snow on easter

spring’s resurrection muddied

hide the eggs indoors

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Later the same year, our weathered, fifty-year-old kitchen cupboards were re-done (resurrected) in “espresso” with distressed brass hardware  🙂

inheritance of fools

Wrote this “grey haibun” to share at dVerse Poets pub…

 

A mist of grey grief hangs over us all. Roll call of promising youth, senselessly gunned down before their prime, grows irreversibly longer even as numbers of disconnected, angry youth swell precipitously. Education leaves God out, letting demons in.

Hate disrespects human dignity. Rage destroys human life. Violence disregards meaning of community. Selfishness and rudeness rule (un)social media. We refuse to walk in the life-giving Light; choosing to crawl into the darkness of our own souls.

The civilization of Man is graying fast. Without fear of God, we will fear each other.  Beauty of human culture  fades. We follow a suicidal path and wonder how to write our own obituary.

 

ashes to ashes

ravens cry over ruins

grey twilight descends

 

 


An insightful article regarding philosophical reasons for school shootings HERE

 

unanticipated love

Holiday haibun (prose exactly 200 words, Frank!) for dVerse “surprise” prompt

 

Christmas is a season of surprises. It began with virgin birth of a king in a cave, marked by a magnificent star. An angel choir sent musical birth announcements. Visitors included local shepherds fresh from the fields and, later, foreign scholars bearing tokens of wealth. The gifts were unusual for a baby shower but signified the child’s future rule, life’s sacrifice, and atoning death.

We celebrate Christmas with surprises hung in stockings, wrapped in packages under trees, bright lights to see and sweet treats to eat. It’s fun to delight someone we love with a gift that “fits” them perfectly. Guests may appear unexpectedly like changeable weather that alternates between merry and dreadful. Mistletoe, moods and mayhem can take us by surprise during the holy (holly) days.

The best surprises are little moments of unanticipated kindness during this season of good cheer. “Adopted” grandparents (now deceased) give children candy advent calendars with a window treat for each day of December. A busy mom who delivers a plate of homemade goodies with her children. A hearty hug and teary smile from an elderly relative in a senior center. A neighbor boy who leaves greeting card and his artwork in a mailbox.

 

stories of Christmas

wrapped with shiny memories

love surprises us

love buds afresh

The rose is a type of flowering shrub. The name “rose” comes from French. It comes from the Latin word Rosa. Roses have been symbols of love, beauty, war, and politics. Ornamental roses have been cultivated for millennia, bred for their flowers and fragrance. Roses are used for cut flowers, perfume, food & drink, medicine and in art.  There are many varieties today such as hybrid teas (most popular), floribundas, climbing roses, shrubs, standards, weeping standards, and miniature rose bushes.  For hundreds of years, the rose has been cherished for its beauty, form, and fragrance inspiring gardeners everywhere.

(Rose facts from Elsie at Ramblings of a Writer )

 

a rose is a rose

fragrant layered mystery

of romance language

 

my father twice widower-ed

calls on old/new lady friend

 

IMG_4434.jpg

haiku & photo by lynn

swoosh of the fukuroo

Join Victoria at dVerse Poets for this week’s haibun prompt: Who? Who? Fukuroo!


 

Late one winter afternoon, I strap on snowshoes, grab my poles and make tracks in powder. The dusky sky glows pale pink as I shush into deep silence. Spruces dusted with fresh snow, wear skirts of blue-hued drifts and beckon me to maneuver their folds. I am tramping a wonderland beneath thin-fingered canopy of ash tree silhouettes. Startled, I flinch as a heavy winged shadow glides closely overhead with a swish-sh-sh of displaced air. An owl swoops low before sweeping onto a bare upper branch fifty yards ahead. I approach cautiously as owl’s head swivels toward me. Notice the unmistakable tufts like ears…it’s the great-horned fukuroo of my dreams!

 

listen, owl’s hooting

images

free stock image

heard often yet rarely seen

great-horned fukuroo!

sunflower power

Joining Carpe Diem Haiku Kai‘s weekend challenge on sunflower theme.  I wrote the prose, followed by a haiku from our host!


IMG_4639

wild sunflower – photo by lynn

 

The sight of sunflowers warms my heart, although my farmer hubby says they’re a weed. I remember as a child planting a few sunflowers in the backyard on east side of detached garage. The plants grow faster than children and their sunny faces exude happiness bright as summer sun. When autumn comes, their smiles fade, petals dry, and seeds mature. Oh, what a joyous feast for the birds! Sparrows flutter and cling to droopy head to peck tasty seeds. We let them eat the raw seeds as we prefer the roasted, salted variety. Dad would have a bag along to ball games or car races where we’d leave striped shells scattered under the bleachers; shells sucked dry of salt until the tips of our tongues went numb. On vacation, I still thrill at roadside sightings of expansive fields of sunflowers; their golden heads tipped toward the sun. On my walks, spotting more diminutive wild versions in the ditches (NOT our fields) brings a smile to my face.

 

blooming sunflowers
reaching for the early light of the sun –
birds praise their Creator
© Chèvrefeuille

Previous Older Entries