Time seems to loiter
slowly crawling uphill
each laboured breath
wheezing to the top
mayhem starts to enter
idol pandemonium
down, down, down
spiralling carelessly
or so it seems to me
twists and turns
clutching by the sides
hurling anecdotes
of a drawn-out past
settles in the present
warning for the future
unless…
mastering these moods
feelings and obssessions
hurdles that care less
dealt once in the past
habit keeps them near
patterns that have settled
trick me into believing
how powerless am I
and yet…
given it some thought
rational and real
oh! silly do I feel
preoccupied with naught
then…
praying to the universe
chanting consciously
feeling the absurdity
lifting and disappear
now…
how I must be mindful
when time does unravel
effort downhill travel
with an intense speed
settling’s just a habit
how I do know better
and I have discovered
this long-awaited gift
spirituality and me,
chanting passionately
gently brings me back
to virtual reality
Walking through the thicket, the woman stops a moment to admire wild daisies. It is mid-day and the sun is commanding nature to acquiesce to her splendid rays. Birds perched in the shade of their home are silent as they embrace their afternoon siesta except for a few chirps from fledglings resisting their nap. And then, the concert begins…from tree to tree sopranos tell their story while another group sing the refrain…piercing sounds mesmerize and finally the last of the fledglings give in to their lullaby.
spellbound cicadas take centre stage nature listens
The woman crouches slowly, taking a picture of her subjects; she smiles at the effect the soft wind has on the flowers. It appears the daisies are waving and smiling with their golden centres boasting towards the sun. And then, she freezes…
At Carpe Diem Haiku Kai, our host and mentor, Chèvrefeuille gives us a spiritual meme where we can choose among four photographs for our inspiration. They are A young mountain monk, Laughter, Time Flies and Tranquility. The image of a clock depicting how time flies is what inspired my haibun/troibun but more than just time flies…how a split second experience can imprint forever in my mind. The blue butterfly visited me from April to November, 2015 following the death of my mother December 2014. I have never seen such a constant presence as this beauty before or after. I know, deep down, she was helping me in my grief.
I feel such laughter in my heart, imagining the daisies also chortling…like the monks in the photo our host has given us. By the time I had completed the troiku(a new form of haiku created also by Chèvrefeuille), I felt my whole being washed with a sense of tranquilty. So, I suppose I was influenced by all four photos and left with a lingering sense of wellbeing.
It was midnight when she walked home, taking the shortcut behind the counselling centre. A cool soft mist felt good on her face. No moon to light up her path, she tread carefully, stumbling over tree trumps and fallen branches from the long winter that had finally passed. As she reached the street, she noticed the street lights were out and blackness shielded her way.
Suddenly, there was loud crack in the sky. She counted “One thousand and one, one thous…” the sky lit up telling her the lightening was fairly close. Grandmaman always said, “Si tu es en vélo ou tu as des semelles en caoutchouc l’éclair ne te touchera pas.” Well, now, who could argue with Grandmaman! For once she was happy to be wearing her Hunter boots she had just purchased. It was a frivolous expense but the money was a present for her milestone birthday.
Now the rain began to pour and she knew running would not stop her from getting soaked, so she walked at a slow pace, lifting her face to the sky letting the raindrops cleanse her weariness.
treading through darkness
allowing thoughts to simmer
draped in its safety
Faces of youths flashed in her mind, their voices expressing their pain. Sadness, confusion and hopelessness proclaiming their needs turning into a cacophony until all she could decipher was a steady rumble.
Another crack erupted from the sky and turned into an explosion of lights. Just as she was entering the Métro, she sighed…who knew?
nature takes its course
granting ever so wisely,
what we need
Like thousands of empty shells until you find a pearl of enlightenment, darkness can be your friend.
Once there was a boy who walked along the beach with his grandfather. The boy could barely match his tall grandfather’s gait but he did not give up, jumping and skipping next to him sticking his chest out when he caught up to him.
They approached some drift wood and GrandPapa led the little one to sit by him and watch the waves forming rows and rows of petticoats. “Ah, cela me fait souvenir des bons moments quand ta mamie était toute jeune.” He sighed and appeared to be in his own world for a long time. Jonathan was only half listening to his grandfather because he often talked about times that he knew very little about.
He started fidgeting from sitting for too long and fell to his knees taking handfuls of sand and putting his ear to it as he slowly let the sand sift through his fingers. GrandPapa looked at Johnathan and started chuckling. He asked him, why he was putting the sand to his ear like that.
His grandson looked up at his grandfather with a slight air of annoyance. « Bien voyons, GrandPapa. J’écoute. Mon prof m’a dit que dans le sable il y a des milliers d’histoires…alors, j’écoute »
waves carry tomes
drifting from faraway
yesteryear’s tales
Ah, cela me fait souvenir des bons moments quand ta mamie était toute jeune.
Ah, that brings wonderful moments to mind when your nana was very young.
Bien voyons, GrandPapa, J’écoute. Mon prof m’a dit que dans le sable il y a des milliers d’histoires…alors, j’écoute »
Come now, Grandpa, I’m listening. My teacher told me that in the sand, there are millions of stories…so, I’m listening.” N.B. in French "histoire" means story but also history.
From the large jug, drink the wine of Unity,
So that from your heart you can wash away the futility of life’s grief.
But like this large jug, still keep the heart expansive.
Why would you want to keep the heart captive, like an unopened bottle
of wine?
With your mouth full of wine, you are selfless
And will never boast of your own abilities again.
Be like the humble stone at your feet rather than striving to be like a
Sublime cloud: the more you mix colors of deceit, the more colorless
your ragged wet coat will get.
Connect the heart to the wine, so that it has body,
Then cut off the neck of hypocrisy and piety of this new man.
Be like Hafiz: Get up and make an effort. Don’t lie around like a bum.
He who throws himself at the Beloved’s feet is like a workhorse and will
be rewarded with boundless pastures and eternal rest.
This morning I read this prompt hoping to have inspiration for the entire day. My intention was to write something later in the week after my work shift late in the night. But, the words of our host, Chèvrefeuille already teased my muse that I had to write something before I left for work.
[“What has this to do with the poem for today? Well … what can I say? In the peom of today Rumi is speaking about “existence” and with that came my “revalation” to tell you a little bit about existentialism, because that was the first thing I thought about. Maybe that’s just a coincedence, because I am reading Nietzsche’s “Also Sprach Zarathustra” at the moment, one of Nietzsche’s most famous works. And existence triggered me to look at existentialism …¸”
our host has written a beautiful haiku in response to this theme:
a game of chess played in the shadow of lion banners – the wind unseen
This reminded me when I chant in the spring, summer and autumn, I seem to see the trees, flowers and grass responding to my words as I walk. Here is my contribution to this post:
Being a water sign she has always felt closely related to the water. As a teenager, she remembers writing an essay about swimming on Lake Champlain where she spent many summers in Vermont. But this time, she did not swim across to the point of the island to rest on the floating pier. This time, she just swam until she could no longer keep her head above water and her favourite mode of swimming was under water. In her essay, she writes how she gets close to the fish, the rocks the discarded bottle at the bottom of the lake. The fish swim past her but some swim along her and she becomes one with the water.
The naïve part of the essay was that she let herself drown. She was too young to realize that she didn’t have to drown to be part of the water and nature. She knows now when she is sailing on a catamaran, she is part of the wind with her jib, with the hull, part of the swell of the water.
Just as when she swam underwater, she is part of more than the water, even when she is sitting on a rock by the riverside she is part of the trees and the sun that dries her cheeks…
by the riverside water splashes on her feet minnows delight
rumble of rapids gulls’ screaming – emotions freed to her heartbeat cascading with intention spilling over dams
Leave the familiar for a while.
Let your senses and bodies stretch out
Like a welcomed season
Onto the meadows and shores and hills.
Open up to the Roof.
Make a new watermark on your excitement
And love.
Like a blooming night flower,
Bestow your vital fragrance of happiness
And giving
Upon our intimate assembly.
Change rooms in your mind for a day.
city sounds scream;
woman at the Métro door
chants the same dream
silent donations
the homeless and the poor
commuters pass by
robotic and bored
not even a glance
drifters and panhandlers
rarely have a chance.
days are all the same
chaotic silent hum
monotonous blends
Aw but the night changes everything! How she longs for sunsets and beyond, watching the sky change. Renoir and Degas learned from the great Master…
This World Which Is Made of Our Love for Emptiness
Praise to the emptiness that blanks out existence. Existence:
This place made from our love for that emptiness!
Yet somehow comes emptiness,
this existence goes.
Praise to that happening, over and over!
For years I pulled my own existence out of emptiness.
Then one swoop, one swing of the arm,
that work is over.
Free of who I was, free of presence, free of dangerous fear, hope,
free of mountainous wanting.
The here-and-now mountain is a tiny piece of a piece of straw
blown off into emptiness.
These words I’m saying so much begin to lose meaning:
Existence, emptiness, mountain, straw:
Words and what they try to say swept
out the window, down the slant of the roof.
Our host, Chèvrefeuille, at Carpe Diem Haiku Kai presents us with a meme of the Spiritual Way – Imagination giving us the choice of four photos for our inspiration.
Tournesol dans un Jardin 