Poetry ~ Waka
It is theMontreal International Jazz Festival that is here now with horns blaring, pianos declaring and sexy throaty singers making our hearts melt. At least a dozen stages outdoors setup in the entertainment district…minutes from cobblestone streets of Old Montreal, China Town and the Old Port. Ten marvelous days and nights of singing, dancing, swaying and slow dancing too.
Sax wails in pain
sultry baritone strings
lovers jive
© Tournesol ’15
The family would pile in the Chevrolet Impala and drive up the windy roads to Old Orchard, Maine. She loved camping in that pine forest despite sweeping the tent twice a day (or more!) of those dried up pine needles.
The only thing she could not do which was such a natural part of her being, was walking barefoot on that bed of pine needles. She could walk on gravel and dirt roads but never on that blanket of prickly pine needles.
Their father would leave the girls and their mother for a week while he drove up further to PA on a business trip. Those were the best of times…just the girls, relaxing. Rising only when the sun warmed the tent; toasting bread on the fire and then walking a mile down that shady road surrounded by old wooden cottages and pine trees…so many gigantic pine trees leading up to the beach where they listened to the sounds of rolling waves, seagulls and youngsters giggling…except of course for the odd melodies on their transistor radio…
Salt water beckons
scent of pine interrupted
seagulls greet
© Tournesol ’15
June 22nd, first day of summer, the day after summer solstice, she sets out to the rapids. Today is a tribute to her departed mother who was born on this day in 1926. She will also cleanse her feet in the waters of the rapids of la rivièvre Richelieu marking her mother’s first anniversary in her eternal resting place…christening this new beginning.
Waves roll with force
declare birth of an angel
in heaven
She sits on one of the rocks by the rapids, allowing the waves to splash and wet her feet and then she dunks them in the busy rumbling water marking a new tradition en homage pour Colombe, sa mère.
Ripples tickle
feet float on rapid currents
birthday giggles
© Tournesol ’15
She remembers her father pointing to the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper; she would scrunch up her nose, squint, trying real hard to see what he could see. Those were times she still looked up to him as her hero. Thank goodness for fond memories of star gazing nights with him.
Heeds directions
unravelling star shaped bears
gazing at the stars
© Tournesol ’15
“Retour sur la piste de Basho Encore” qui a écrit le haïku suivant peu après la mort soudaine de son ami, Yoshitada.
furu oto ya mimi mo su-naru ume no ame
un son tombant
aigrir mes oreilles
la pluie des prunes
© Basho (Clr traduit de la traduction anglaise par Jane Reichhold)
le prunier très cher
Mon beau-père est décédé mardi. Ce haïbun est écris dans le souvenir de monsieur Bernard. Le haïku de Matsuo Basho m’a rappelé de bon souvenirs de ce grand homme.
Je n’ai jamais vu un prunier avant celui qui était dans la cour de monsieur Bernard (grand-père de nos enfants) quand j’avais à peine seize ans et la fiancée de son fils. Je me souviens de l’arbre qui était grand et maigrichon ; nous avons ri et l’avons tous taquiné à combien d’années qu’il faudra pour enfin voir des fruits ; mais nous avions tort. En quelques années, l’arbre a fleuri et a porté ses fruits.
Il était si fier de son prunier. Cela signifiait plus qu’un arbre pour lui. Ce fut sa première nouvelle maison dont qu’il et son épouse avaient réussi à gratter et économisez pour loger leurs trois enfants adolescents. Leur fils aîné avait déjà deux petits enfants. Maintenant, ils avaient la liberté d’une grande espace verte avec une petite clairière au fond de la cour. Ils avaient lutté pendant de nombreuses années et maintenant ils avaient humble jardin, quelques arbres et une maison pour appeler «le leur». C’était une grande victoire.
douce éclat
whoosh sur les brins d’herbe
première goutte de prune
© Tournesol ‘15
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“Back on the trail of Basho Encore” who wrote the following haiku shortly after the sudden death of his friend, Yoshitada.
furu oto ya mimi mo su-naru ume no ame
a falling sound
that sours my ears
plum rain © Basho (Tr. Jane Reichhold)
the prized plum tree
My father-in-law and the grandfather of our children, died on Tuesday. This haibun is in memory of monsieur Bernard. Basho’s haiku reminded me of this great man.
The first plum tree I ever saw was in his back yard when I was barely sixteen, engaged to his son. I remember how tall and scrawny the tree looked and we all chuckled and teased him at how many years it would take to see any fruit but we were wrong. In just a few years, the tree blossomed and bore fruit.
He was so proud of his plum tree. It meant more than a tree to him. This was his first new house his wife and he had managed to scrape and save to own and house their three adolescent children. Their eldest son had already two small children. Now they had the freedom of a huge backyard with a wooded area beyond the property. They had struggled for many years so a humble garden, a few trees and a home to call “theirs” was a huge victory.
soft thump
swish on blades of grass
first plum drop
© Tournesol ’15
Carpe Diem, on the trial with Basho Encore
Where would she be without her daydreams? If it were not for reading and tapping on that keyboard from time to time, she might go through most of her days living in her head. Walking stirs such reveries! Driving or sitting on a bus or train opens doors to another world; watching the sun set or sitting in class to a boring lecture…lying in bed the daydreams simply roll on a neverending reel.
Reserved seating
dreams of castles in the air
eyelids screen
© Tournesol ’15
On her cool flat stones she sits in quiet contemplation. Tears run down her cheeks as she empties her heart feeling so alone until…
lone muse
spills self in hurried waters,
rapids call her name
by the riverside
all qualms are shared
current flows
pooling every misery
liberating souls
As a youth up to my early teens, my family would go camping from May (Victoria weekend) until mid-October (Canadian Thanksgiving). I would literally go for a quick swim about a week after the ice had melted…just to impress my father and he and my sister would take down the tent often in the snow in October.
Every weekend my parents, sister and I would ride up to Isle le Motte, Vermont (on Champlain Lake) to spend a weekend in the fresh air. Friday night when we arrived, would consist of eating split pea soup before going to bed and Saturday we would often have T-bone steak with huge wieners and baked potatoes on the BBQ for dinner.
Thankfully the family that camped next door were our good friends (more like our second family) from our hometown and had three children, the two eldest were teens; so the parents would sit around a campfire and do adult stuff like tells jokes and drink lots of Bloody Mary’s except for my dad who was sober since I was seven and the teens would listen to The Rolling Stones and the Beatles on our turntable….yes, there was electricity that served for our entertainment so we did not whine to our parents we were bored; electricity was only for tacky lanterns lit around the campsite and our record player.
Before starting the fire however, my father would combine the fixings to make home-baked beans, put it all in an earthenware pot and he had purchased a tiny square oven (looked just like a tin box) and dig it in the centre of the ground beneath the bonfire. The beans baked all night long .
New dawn whispers
Sunday breakfast simmers
neath amber ashes
© Tournesol’15
She looks at the sky as she drives towards a storm…the clouds look like waves and then the dark heavy billows menacing a downpour. Huge droplets fall and she pulls over the side of the highway as many other motorists have wisely done. The sound is hypnotizing and she turns off the motor, radio and wipers…
dark puffs of anger
burst at the seams cascading
quietude
© Tournesol ’15
A weekend planned to rest and settle boring duties, but….she visited old treasures and then read more stories. Emmersed in thought and such pleasures, two days passed like the snap of a twig…
Time runs away
Fleeting like a butterfly
Leaves a blossom
© Tournesol’15
Tournesol dans un Jardin 
