Haibun

All posts tagged Haibun

The Bus Driver – A haibun

Published March 12, 2018 by Nan Mykel

At 60 and after the death of my wife, my daytime and dreamtime is peopled with those who ride my transit bus.  Mostly poor and straggling, they are glad to see me.  I like that.  Some call me Frank, others Mr. Sloan.  I see Mrs. Gaines waiting up ahead and know that means a struggle to get her into my bus. She’s cheerful though and that makes up for the loss of time. Riders depend on my schedule, you see, and I try not to disappoint them.

 

Birds on limb singing

Seasons they do come and go

Moonlight sonata

 

 

 

BEAUTY — a haibun

Published January 18, 2018 by Nan Mykel

WHERE DOES BEAUTY COME FROM?

From evolution, where else?  How do  beauty/culture/evolution interact?  With botox, puffed up lips, wrinkle-remover.  How many “Sexiest Man Alive” magazine covers have I seen?  Sex, and it is not missing in the wild, with colorful baboon bottoms and robins’ breasts, enticing.  We may find a white peacock lovely, ignorant of the sexual function of animal attraction.

The earliest hint I can find of the experience of beauty  is the appearance of attraction to babies with “cute faces,” which had already appeared on earth at least by the time of the dinosaurs.  Evolution’s goal in that case is so parents wouldn’t eat their offspring. Good thinking!

Some people can appreciate beauty in art, music, poetry, dance and nature.  To me it feels like there’s a little-used nerve inside that turns on and flows warmly in my chest area. It seems to feed me.  But I can’t attend to beauty when I’m cold.

E.O. Wilson speaks of the creative arts being the “true and beautiful.” Is there a connection?

bird on the canvas

the serenade of bird song

Mother’s loving  smile

The Trolley Ride – a haibun

Published January 3, 2018 by Nan Mykel

If you ride a trolley long enough you’ll come to the end of the line.  You can then remember the sights and stops, the riders that come and go.  Maybe trouble on the line, cross words or banter, perchance the frozen grim look of out-of-sorts folks. Perhaps that little girl with lollipop all over her face. But search the faces–all of them–whose do you want to see?

poppinjays alight

the limb too weak to support

night slides into day

 

 

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