UNTITLED HAIBUN
Icon, idol, pop singer, celebrity. A mystery, a curious oddity. Loved and hated, revered and distained. Michael Jackson.
a seedling
grown into its unique form
before dying;
we enjoyed its shade
while questioning its shape
Adelaide B. Shaw
Andrea: "Hallo?"
Patricia: "Hey, I am Pat!"
A: "Pat? What the hell! How is it going?"
P: "I'm fine, thanks!"
A: "Are you still in Manchester?"
P: "Yes, I am with Dan…"
A: "Nice!"
P: "Andrea... I'm dying here!! There's a lot of snow outside… I was born in Brazil and not inured to cold so, I miss the warmth of Italy very much"
A: "Yeah, I understand... and of course I heard the latest news about the bad weather in England but, changing subject, something new about your marriage?"
P: "I am a Sagittarius, you know... I usually rack my brains trying to understand many things but, I play my part to the end anyway..."
A: "What?"
P: "Oh, nothing... "
midwinter's cold--
my friend's voice cracks
on the phone
During the feast everything is fading... happy and light-hearted people stroll about the city, ignoring or forgetting that many bars and typical taverns have disappeared, swallowed up by progress and fashions that have deprived them of the traditional glamour. Even many customers no longer exist.
I see my fellow citizens enjoy the feast and drinking wine, while I’m trying to remember the name of who said "many people drink to forget their addiction" and then I wonder "to what?"
closure of a pub--
the barfly begs
for a photo of himself
After a long time, my ex-girlfriend Sharon and I decided to take a holiday and decided to go to Egypt. Europe was too cold in October. Work was getting too stressful and it was affecting our exhausted relationship. We needed to go somewhere warm, the flight was short: just a few hours. We just wanted to relax but hadn't realised that there was an international summit on the political problems of the Middle East under way in Egypt. Islamic terrorism had not shown its fiercer nature yet. Osama Bin Laden wasn't representing a danger. Bill Clinton was the president of the United States.
On arrival there were many people, and also many police. Then I saw it...
"Hey! I know that airplane! It's the very first time that... "
"What the fuck are you doing? Shut up!
Or do you want to attract attention to us?
Have you forgotten that I'm a Jew and this is an Islamic Country?"
"ehm... sorry, I'm very sorry"
Sharm El Sheik summit:
Air-Force-One lands
next to the tourists
(Previously published on my book "Ten Little Haibuns")
Valeria tells me an anecdote of her childhood: her mother brought her ice creams from Moscow that would have been very difficult to find in the Ukraine. The attraction of these ice creams was that there was a plastic coloured stick with a small fish shape on the top that appeared once the ice cream was finished…
I have a memory of a similar ice cream, but it's a memory in black and white.
Lots of my childhood's memories are in black and white.
Most of my seventies are in black and white.
I can see myself seated on the floor in the living-room playing with plastic soldiers and tanks while outside the big window I see the true dark tanks passing. This was the Cold War and neighbouring Yugoslavia filled my town and childhood with soldiers . Our first television was in black and white too…
forgotten toy box--
my brother and I
bump heads
Our first meeting in Moscow was not easy. After breakfast, Valeria went to work and left us sitting in the kitchen. Natalia doesn't speak Italian neither English: only Russian… so we stayed there glancing at each other, in silence, without saying a word. nevertheless I am at ease even not knowing why, and I relax.
Suddenly the turtle in the aquarium plunges into the water and we both turn to look at it. I stand up to get a better look on the turtle and to stretch my legs a bit. Natalia follows me.
"in Italian we call it TARTARUGA", I say to Natalia. She smiles and repeats like enjoying the word "TAR-TA-RU-GA"
[…]
I was surprised when before leaving she told me in English: "Hope to see you soon…" Smiling, I replied: "Oh! I hope the same!"
pizza for dinner--
my mother-in-law tries
to speak Italian
Piggybacking off of Curt's fine haibun, this is a true story about a close friend of mine, Jesse McKinney. He died nearly 10 years ago.
Left Hand Man
He was only 22, but for many of those who knew him it was no surprise that his life came to an early end. Just days before his death, the two of us sat beneath a sky as dark as any I have ever seen. There was no moon and there were no stars. It was here that he wrote his first and only poem. The writing was hardly legible when brought into the light, but he made it crystal clear that he thought of himself as the Devil's left hand man. When I heard the news that he left us, I wasn't surprised. Ultimately, when faced with the complexities that define life, he simply walked away.
morning sunlight —
an unfinished game
still on the chessboard
Contemporary Haibun Online vol 2 no 3
Cold Snap
He appears nervous, shifting his weight on one leg, then the other, as he informs me that he doesn't feel well and he's going home. He hands me his task list, turns around, and clocks out. I note that all of the work on the list has been completed early, which means he probably didn't take a morning or lunch break. I start to call after him, to ask if there is something wrong, but a moment of hesitation silences my question. It's none of my business if he wants to take the remainder of the day off; I've been thinking about taking a day or two myself.
The next morning a couple of maintenance workers find him slumped behind the steering wheel of his car in a parking lot near the coroner's office. Despite the lack of a note and no history of suicidal tendencies, his death is ruled "self-inflicted."
crack of a stick
underfoot —
killer frost
previously published in Haibun Today
Smoke
It's pitch black out here as we stand on the porch at the back of my house. The flare of light from his cigarette burns away a bit of the darkness, and I am compelled to ask him, "Why do you smoke so much? Aren't you worried that you're killing yourself?". Laughing, he tells me that he smokes because he doesn't want anyone else to take credit for his death.
hellfire sermon —
catching the breeze
from a paper fan
previously published in Frogpond XXXI:1
The way from Indira Gandhi International Airport to New Dehli center is a nightmare. After twenty days of work in Little Tibet, it’s not easy to confront crowds, heavy pollution and carcasses of dead cows at the margins of the road... The taxi carries my collegue and I to the Imperial Hotel in the central district of the megalopolis. A room is waiting for us before tomorrow's flight for Italy. The immense hotel imposes itself with all its colonial glamour and once entered we plunge into the conditioned air and the warmest welcome of the Indian staff. It's clear at the first sight that this is one of the most luxurious hotels in India.
All the staff in reception speak PERFECT English, and after long weeks in Ladakh, where we communicated in broken English, I work hard to follow their speech. Our room feels like a mini apartment: Firstly I phone to my mother in Italy directly from the room, then watch satelite TV and call the hotel's laundry service. Unlike the staff of reception, no one speaks good English there... the only phrases they know are "you are welcome" and "thank you Sir" when receiving the tip.
For the bathroom I have precise agreements with my travel companion: first I wash myself, and I have permission to stay all the time I want... and then it's his turn (guessing he will stay a lot of hours!). Absolute cleanliness reigns inside of our room: there's not a speck of dust... while I'm having the bath I recall that in Leh, for washing, we used a basin of water with a pitcher... When I leave the bathroom and pass the turn to my collegue, I decide to order something to eat in room and then try to understand the secret of this absolute cleanliness. And then I realize: the windows are sealed...
welded.
Dehli sunset;
over the rusty hovels
the Imperial Hotel
(from my book "Ten Little Haibuns" and previously published on Chrysanthemum#2)
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