Five years already on this blog. How time has changed. It started as a “thinking out loud” blog, sometimes getting on my soapbox and that was why I started Stop the Stigma. I moved on to short stories, then poetry all under the name “Cher Shares” and now it is Tournesol dans un Jardin with only Waka (Japanese poetry forms) which I grown to not only enjoy writing but has helped me on many spiritual levels and grieving my mom.
Up until two years ago, I posted maybe once a month and now I try to post daily…so it may be five years but it really feels more like two since I started taking this more seriously.
Thanks to followers who have been patient with all my transformations like someone who changes hair style often.
They had traveled for two days and one night, always climbing. They stopped in small villages along the way to rest a bit, talk with villagers and ask them advice on their journey up the Himalayas. An elderly man sat crossed legged in his tiny hut behind the cabin where they were lodged for the night. He seemed in a trance, sleeping and dreaming perhaps. The travelers were touched by the old man’s faint smile on his lips.
twilight’s first act,
almost close enough to touch
dancing stars
Walking home last night she sees grey swirls elevated near the curb as she crosses the street. The first frozen puddle she has noticed in the city, autumn’s last month flirting with winter. She knows the days are numbered now. Leading towards the end of this season sometimes feels like walking towards a grave.
fallen to their death leaves spread season’s quilt tucking in the earth
Although logic knows the earth is not dead but asleep…napping for a spell, until spring, the dark of day lacking sunshine makes us feel this way on this cold day of November. Not only does nature seem somnolent but the sun as well, turning in so early.
sun bids farewell yet, it’s only teatime! autumn’s new soirée
No longer can one dine in the evening whilst they admire art displays in the sky. (sigh!) The artist too, has turned in earlier, skipping dinner and off to bed.
painting moods in blues in the darkest hour cleansing of new dawn
One can sometimes hear In the darkest hour awe celestial notes message from the heavens, still, she is not clear…
Nature has its mysteries, that she does not know; makes it all the more appealing, savouring the unknown.
whispers in her ear playing sanguine notes lighting up her soul
I think I may have gotten carried away here with poetic prose and turned a few sentences into haiku and tanka. I am still categorizing this as a haibun.
Sitting at the picnic table near the chip wagon, she sprinkled vinegar and salt on her fries. Taking that first bite of her fry was delightful. Another bite and she winced at the slight burning sensation on her lip. Salt can do that but no matter how unhealthy they say it is, she could not go without salt on French fries.
She remembered when she was a child playing kick the can with friends in the summer. Her mom would call her in when it got dark and she was all sweaty. She loved the taste of salt on her arm.
chaleur torride sueur luisante goût d’été
sweltering heat sweat glistens taste of summer
They met on the beach. It felt so natural. They walked hand in hand as the sun was slowly dipping in the horizon. The tide was out. How delicious to feel the cool sand between their toes as they walked what seemed, forever.
taste of sunset, waves roll in softly, salt on her lips
She brushes her hair with her brush, the one with the ivory handle, Papa brought her on his last trip. Staring into the mirror she makes faces like she did when she was a child. How she loved playing this game with Papa. They would take turns making faces and the other had to guess who or what they were imitating. For her it was usually insects or birds and that was where she got her nickname. Papa always called her, “Ma petite Luciole, you are the light of my life.”
Five years have passed since then but she wonders if l’avarice has taken over her Papa, she has started to call monsieur l’étourneau. He says he is still looking for that special treasure and when he finds it, he will return for good. She looks out at the birdfeeder near her bedroom window. She huffs out of frustration. That starling is stealing all the seeds again…such a greedy little thing it can be!
She misses her Papa and especially since her Maman died in childbirth three years ago. She still has a difficult time to be happy around la petite Colibri. They nicknamed her after hearing her moan in her bed at night putting herself to sleep. Pauvre petite Colibri, she thought. She had the same emerald green eyes of Maman. How she craved for the long ago laughter of her Papa.
They had all they needed, she reasoned. Her father had inherited le Manoir des Chèvrefeuilles as well as their maison de campagne in Marseilles when maman passed and yet…
She would write to him later this afternoon, she thought, gazing at her silver pheasant feather quill pen. She would ask Colibri to paint a huge soleil to bring Papa back home soon. She sighs and drapes the silk lavender shawl over her bare shoulders and runs down for le petit dejeuner sur la terasse with her Grandmaman and sister.
Have you ever noticed when you are driving in a town or city and listening to music in the car, people walking by seem to be walking to the beat? Sometimes the music is fast paced and you can’t help but notice the hips sway, the arms doing their one-two,one-two movement. Perhaps you have changed channel a few times to see who moves best or the most to the rhythm. Maybe you are with a friend and he or she points some people out…heck, even dogs are walking to the beat!
Then you may be strolling through a park with your ear-buds, listening to your tunes and you cannot help but move to the movement in time with the music floating in your ears. If it is upbeat, and you are walking on a city sidewalk, that could actually be a risk to the safety to you and others. Better tone the music down to something more mellow and mosey along ready to stop, walk around or step off the sidewalk at times. Yes, yes, you have met those friends who walk three and four in a row refusing to break their group of four.
Even if you do not have music to carry you when you go for a walk, you can certainly hear something that will have a beat that can carry you at a certain tempo. The beeping at the red light for visually impaired to cross has a nice honk to it and even when it stops, it still echoes for a few blocks as you walk to that beat. The rattle of a three wheeler down the street, the repetitive clang of a loose hub cap or the click click of those nice pumps across the street. I prefer the steady thump of my favourite boots when I’m in a good mood.
The best of all of course, is walking either just after dawn or before dusk, the conference of fowls who play, chatter, talk about their day, mother robin singing her bedtime stories to her nestling. It is a cacophony of chirps of various intonations and if you close your eyes you can imagine you are in the woods somewhere alone just you and nature. Your heart beats quicker at first until the tones simmer down and you watch the sun set…
Tournesol dans un Jardin 