Her son and daughter-in-law arrived March 20th, for a belated birthday brunch with an armful of assorted flowers. She was taken by surprise, expecting to eat out but never had she imagined such an array of beauty. Words of affection on the gift card warmed her heart. Several kinds of daisies with exuberant colours brought life to her living room and then her eyes set on those roses…
(Troiku) ardent rose crying devotion her urge to write
ardent rose
breath of new life
filled with passion
crying devotion
first day of spring
ties renewed
her urge to write
a therapeutic process
soothes the soul
“Not another rainy day!!” Trula stomped her feet and threw herself on the couch and sulked.
Her nana rocked by the window and pointed her finger at her grand-daughter, “Child, you take each day as it comes. You cannot command the universe or turn your back to what the Great Spirit hands you each day. You will regret it some day.” Holding her wooden beads, she whispered softly to herself but the only audible words were “protect her”.
Trula rolled her eyes and scowled at her nana. Year after year, it was the same thing when it was cloudy, raining, snowing or windy, Trula made a scene and refused to study and as she got older refused doing chores on the farm.
Several years later her nana died, when Trula was twenty-one. The family buried her on the farm near an old oak tree where Nana used to sit and read for hours and later when her eyes failed her, she would pray and smile up at the sky giving thanks to the Great Spirit for each new day.
A few days after the burial, Trula was planting seeds in the garden and suddenly the sky turned dark. An odd-looking cloud loomed over her and the wind picked up dramatically. Trula rose her fist to the sky in protest when suddenly she felt her feet lift from the ground and long tendrils pulling at her shoulder and head; a huge CRACK resonated from the sky muffling the sound of a broken neck.
(c) Brooke Shaden
the universe rules, appreciate each day rain or shine
We are asked to form a haibun by adding a haiku to our host’s beautiful narrative; after writing one haiku, the image and moment had more to say so I wrote a troiku instead to be true to the experience I had reading this narrative. Shall I call this Tale & Troiku? or Traibun? Perhaps our host can help me with this for I find myself writing a troiku with a narrative more often than naught.
Twenty-five men left five days ago. The jeep left a trail dust riding over the hill where they were stationed. Today only twelve men returned but only five in one piece. It was their last mission before returning back home. They were anxious to see their family back in Canada but dreaded delivering the tragic news to more grieving families. Sergeant Harvey drove the jeep behind the compound and their mascot ran to greet them. Amir was a black Labrador mix and his loyalty was genuine.
She entered the coffee shop across from Concordia University. They met here the first time five years ago. Some lectures pushed her buttons. Many fled to Psychology hoping “book smart” would make better therapists, muttering, “Enough of this learning by doing crap!”
“Work out your own shit”, most of her professors said, “Be aware of your red flags! You could do more harm than good.” The same group of mature students met here after each class. Together they formed a community of resources, compassion and knowledge.
she dreaded endings, late arrival was more her style …just couldn’t say goodbye.
Working on a youth line that is open 24/7 I have seen how challenging it can be and yet, it is also a labour of love. However the true heroes at this agency are those who listen with compassion from 6 to 8 and 10 hours each night. These counsellors are the true heroes of the night.
such sadness
listening all night long
the graveyard shift
uncovering truths
old wounds open – and,
untold secrets
such sadness
listening all night long
the graveyard shift
sudden tears
bearing heart and soul – sometimes,
left for vacant
such sadness
listening all night long
the graveyard shift
March rains clean the earth’s surface; lawns look like shaved hay, trees still barren of any sight of buds…
still hopeful
spring in all its newness
yearning for green
Looking out the window crossing the bridge, she smiles seeing not snow, not rain but a sure sign of warm air clashing with cold. Surely, the warm will win.
morning mist
ripples midst sparse ice patches
lifts off the river
Tournesol dans un Jardin 