In moments, or: Accumulations

A haibun

There are changes measured not in moments but in accumulations. A leaf yellows. A shoreline shifts. A path grows faint from disuse. By the time the difference becomes obvious, the work has been done by countless days that seemed no different from the ones before.

d’Verse Haibun Monday

For this week’s Haibun Monday prompt, we are encouraged to compose solstice-themed haibun.

Let’s write poetry together!

When it comes to partnership, some humans can make their lives alone – it’s possible. But creatively, it’s more like painting: you can’t just use the same colours in every painting. It’s just not an option. You can’t take the same photograph every time and live with art forms with no differences.

Would you like to create poetry with me and have a completed poem of yours featured here at the Skeptic’s Kaddish? I am very excited to have launched the ‘Poetry Partners’ initiative and am looking forward to meeting and creating with you… Check it out!

Apricot Sun

••⋅☾ #俳句 ☽⋅••

Hydrangea clouds
Smiling down on a
Apricot Sun

••⋅☾ #Haiku ☽⋅••

Local apricots, so ripe they almost melt.

#Poetry #Haiku #Haiga #俳画 #Haibun #俳文 #NMPoetry
#Photography #マストドン写真部 #写真 #詩 #Summer #Fruit #Flowers

#PennedPossibilities 1043: How do you refuel your creativity?

••⋅☾ #和歌 / #短歌 ☽⋅••

Like a spring
Sweet silent welling
There is no tap

An empty basin
Time will remedy that
.
••⋅☾ #WakaPoetry / #Tanka ☽⋅••

#Haibun #俳文

• Sleep
• Read
• Walk the dog
• Seek isolation

#Poetry #Haiku #NMPoetry #NMPP #NMPrompts

••⋅☾#ものく☽⋅••

in dreams verses wax forgotten now

••⋅☾#Monoku☽⋅••

#Haibun #俳文: I wrote reams of good poetry last night. Multiverse Renku. Alas, this is the only one I remember, written while Hypnopompic.

#NMPoetry #Poetry #Dream

#haibun #poetry #prose

contemporary haibun online, 20.3

by Andrew Riutta

A Door Open to Private Ceremony

My father just told me, while he was shooting up insulin and swallowing his bedtime pills, that years ago, a fellow medicine man said he’d seen—amid the sweat lodge the two were in—the face of an old Vietnamese woman right above Dad’s left shoulder. And that she’d likely been the one who watched over him during the war. But even more, throughout his wild years. After he got back to the States … literally kept him from being scraped across gravel and tossed—by other teeth-kicking mules—into some cold, muddy ditch or brush pile between Newberry and McMillan. Or skinned while still breathing behind the Airport Bar and then sank to the bottom of a pond. (Or shackled himself and sent to Marquette Prison for a thousand years.) So, this is why, at all of the Ghost Suppers, my father offers a bamboo plate of fish and rice to the fire.

floundering moth—
I gently land it
in a moon shadow