I rarely descend to the existential depths of metaphysical dread. Why would anyone want to? Besides there’s nothing down there. That’s why it’s dreadful. Why get all miserable over nothing? Sanity stays on the bright surface with the breathable air and the cleansing rain. Or, to put it in other words: don’t look down–the deeper depth is toward the sky. That leads me to my problem. Although I don’t have anything particularly dreadful to write about, which should make the sophisticated and critical reader question my allegiance to the dark side, I no longer have any motivation to shut up.
SMILING LETS ONE BE
SEASONS’ PLAYFUL METERS RHYME
TIME TO LIVE FORGIVE
Text: Linked to dVerse Haibun Monday. Bjorn is hosting. Toni provided the prompt why do we write in the way we do? I am not sure if I answered it.
I am also linking this to Debbie Roth’s Forgiving Fridays because it occurred to me when I woke this morning that if I really want to levitate to a deeper depth I will have to stop weighing myself down with making sure karma is distributed equitably. There’s plenty of karma to go around.
Photos: “Water Flowers”, above, and “At the Chicago Botanic Garden”, below, by the author.
After Michael saw the ghost he understood. What he understood he would not say. True knowledge should not be made so literal that any monkey could understand it.
Anne sympathized with him but she thought his deranged prefrontal whatchamacallit generated the ghost. Otherwise why was he locked up with her?
Michael told her she could escape with him through the skylight of the cell. Anne said she would consider it. That was the only reason Michael told the ghost to wait.
Text: Linked to Sue Vincent’s #writephoto .
It is now also Story 100 in Christopher Fielden’s 81 Words, a project attempting to “set a Guinness World Record for the most contributing authors published in an anthology”. They have 102 stories so far and need 898 more as of 8:38 AM CST today.
Photo: Sue Vincent provided the photo for the prompt.
Even a thick, stone wall can have an opening letting light through like a window with a rock-hard frame. Outside our window two cars stopped. The front car was undamaged. The front bumper of the rear car, however, hung almost to the ground which made the accident look worse than it was.
Standing on the grass a sixteen-year-old girl watched an older woman, the driver of the front car, examine the damages. Her brother stood by her side ready to act if there was anything he needed to do, but there wasn’t much he could do.
A third car arrived. A second woman stepped out and the two adults talked. The second woman gave the first her insurance information and then she walked to her daughter. One could sense the daughter’s tears hiding behind her eyes and deepening frown. I imagine she wanted to know what was so wrong with her that she could have unintentionally and unexpectedly damaged her family.
Her mother’s arms opened and wrapped themselves around her daughter. Now we all have these openings, if we want to use them, but sometimes, perhaps because the fairy tales we tell ourselves aren’t real, we do not think we do. Anyway, without demanding an explanation, the mother emptied the tears hiding in her daughter’s heart through the opening of her own.
Birds line up near the water’s edge to watch the sunrise on the beach. So do a few people although not in such nice lines. Workers collect garbage from trash containers. Others drive tractors smoothing the sand roughed from yesterday’s play. Unintentionally they make raked Japanese Zen gardens, but without the stones. They are so perfect they need delicate footsteps. So much order also wants to be beautiful.
BIRDS OBSERVE THE SUN
ROUGH WAVES SOOTH THE WINTER SHORE
WALK THROUGH FRESH RAKED SAND
Linked to dVerse Haibun Monday. Victoria C. Slotto is hosting with the theme Wabi-Sabi, the art of imperfection.
Photos: “Sunrise Watching” above and the collage “Bird Tracks on the Beach” below both by the author. These are linked to K’lee and Dale’s Cosmic Photo Challenge with the theme “Birds and Bees”.
Come join us with your photos and haibun!
When harsh winds blow some whine, “How the wicked wind oppresses me!” Others wonder how they could make money off that wind by grinding grain or generating electricity. One turns it into poetry. The other turns a profit.
The Little People dwelt in the windmill. Like everyone they loved good stories. The Big People owned the mill. They tolerated the Little People because they bravely fought the Hungry Mice who wanted the grain as much as they did. “Get your own grain!” the Little People shouted. As a reward the Big People let the Little People have enough for their needs and internet connections.
Everything trended nicely, but the problem with trends is people forget once something goes one way long enough that it could go the other way. So most everyone confidently predicted everything would stay the same and every time it stayed the same their predictions came true. True, there were some who feared the end was always near, but that’s how their minds trended and they were usually wrong.
One day Wicked Wind joined Raging Fire and burnt whatever was dry including the windmill. The Big People were no longer big. They looked little and the Little People had no home. Even the mice were unhappy.
Illnesses popped up out of nowhere. The mice were blamed. The homeless Little People were blamed. The formerly Big People were blamed. The poetry and stories went dark and conflict trended.
The mice, who could not access the windmill, quickly recovered. Meanwhile the wind stirred the People mixing the big with the small as their generations sailed through birth and death until they rewrote their stories and survived.