Magnapoets Japanese Form

When Livio calls me to take him to Prague, I can't believe it: the magic of Prague... Livio has begun to translate a book of a Czech writer for a small university publisher and he doesn't want to make the car trip alone. We cross into Austria and ten hours later arrive in the first city of the Czech Republic. The next day, since my travel companion has managed to obtain a meeting with his Czech author for an interview, I tour the city center alone.

It's a very cold October in Prague. The city is full of tourists, however, a feeling of solitude grows in me... the only thing warming my heart is the puppets: a secular tradition of this fairy country. Puppets and puppet shops everywhere...

everywhere…

 

old-fashioned shop
a few ragged dolls
on the unlit firewood

Do you remember the night in the park, years ago, when our futures took a different direction? We saw the moon, the one I see now, look down at us. Even though its shape and color has changed so many times, its real face never has - nor have ours...

shadows spread
from the old oak tree~
summer night

David's doctor visit haiku triggered a memory of a visit I made several years ago.
Ray

---

Chest pains!

A voice in my head says ‘have it checked’, but another voice, the one that likes the lawn to get long before mowing it, says: “just a muscle spasm, don't worry about it.”

One day passes, two, three … seven now. The pain has ebbed and flowed, but not gone away. The possibilities dance through my mind: heart attack, cancer, ulcer, kidney stone, gall bladder—the list goes on and on.

And, I drive to EMERGENCY.

The triage nurse asks how long I’ve had the pains. I confess to only 2 days. She pats my hand: “You mustn’t wait when you have chest pains. Sit over there and we’ll take you NEXT.”

“NEXT!” That NEXT echoes in my mind. Who gets immediate attention in an emergency ward? I imagine metal tongs prying my chest open, a quadruple by-pass, a dead person’s heart being jammed into my empty chest cavity.

Soon, I’m squeezed into one of those tiny hospital gowns with too many personal parts hanging out. They draw blood, take temperature, read blood pressure, administer ECG, x-ray bones—everything but floss my teeth.

Wait time ... minutes like hours ... white coats pass by, but none stop. Have they forgotten about me? Or, better, perhaps they’ve decided to ignore me because there’s no immediate problem.

My imagination's evil doctor, the one with the pencil line moustache and snide smile, whispers to the charge nurse: “As punishment for waiting seven days, let him sit for a few more hours.”

I can’t quite accept the possibility of death, but related thoughts stream in: I should have done my will, pre-arranged the cremation, hugged my kids more, told someone I was coming in …

gurney wheels squeak—
the sound of a monitor
flatlining

Startled, I consider getting dressed, bolting out the door. I imagine orderlies dragging me back, the triage nurse’s ‘tut-tut’ as they lash me to a stretcher.

And, then, the DOCTOR arrives, no pencil moustache, scans the paperwork for what seems like hours, says: “ALL CLEAR. Guess you had a bit of a scare, eh? Next time come in right away.”

viagra ad—
twenty old men dancing
in the street

Haiku is the Achilles heel of haibun,  so comments on the haiku and prose is always appreciated.

What if ...

100,000 years from now, a paleontologist finds the hardened paw print my black lab just made in the trail's soupy mud, and looking at the four toes and heel pattern, says to himself, 'dog' or 'wolf'. And, a cast of the print goes on a wall in a museum somewhere, and school children come and look and try to imagine the great beast that made the print.

Will they imagine this grassy hillside, hear the grumbling roar, not of beast, but of machines passing nearby, will they smell the exhaust fumes, see the yellow haze filling the sky, sense the weight of impending disaster?

Perhaps, it won't be a paleontologist, but a hunter, who finds the print in hardened mud and takes it back to his dwelling. He passes it around at his tribe's fire circle and together they wonder what kind of beast it was, for he hunts only small mammals, mice and voles and rats.

dinosaur museum
a tooth
larger than my arm

This is one I've just started working on. It's been in my head on each bike ride -- and yet doesn't feel quite right to me. Suggestions would be most welcome.
Ray

Age of Enlightenment draft 2

Eratosthenes, a Greek astronomer, determined that the earth was a sphere and calculated its rough circumference in the third century BC. By the 15th century, most educated people in Europe had abandoned the notion that the Earth is flat.

Enlightenment on the matter only came to me this week when I purchased a silver bicycle with narrow tires that had the look of being very fast. But nothing in my prairie city, as it turns out, is flat. Even small inclines constrain my speed to just above a slow walk.

I can't be blamed for not knowing. Mostly I've viewed my city through the windows of airplanes and cars, whereas many ancients lived near an ocean where they could see ships approaching, the mast top appearing first. Here, there are no sailing ships, just mile high clouds floating by, but not appearing cloud top first.

My second enlightenment came when two kids peddled past on an uphill, gleefully sounding their warning bells and yelling "You're almost there!" It's likely they had the top of the hill in mind, but I couldn't help but think of the end of the line. 

As for the third enlightenment ...

downhill race--
neck to neck
with a jackrabbit

Lament for a Canine
Ray Rasmussen

"The coyote just snatched Tinker up and trotted off with her." The newspaper shows a woman, tears flowing down her cheeks, clutching Belle, her other long-haired Brussels Griffon. "We have to eliminate these killers," she's quoted as saying. "Who knows whether the neighbors' children will be next." Her newly built home is perched on the edge of the Whitemud Wildlife Sanctuary, a small nature reserve.

evening chill--
an ambulance and coyote
joined in chorus

Click!

After yet another fight about being away with his pals so much, Mom has at least succeeded in badgering Dad into taking me fishing. He drives the old Ford wagon and chats with his buddy while I'm in the back seat fantasy casting with my first hand-me-down pole.

On our way to the lake, we pass through a small town, and I hear Dad say, "Wow, look at that!" I look but spot no kids, no dogs, no ice cream stores, nothing of interest and go back to landing the big one that I've hooked.

Years later, at a sidewalk café enjoying coffee and the spring sun, my friend George looks up and says, "Wow, look at that!" She's wearing a tight tank top, red shorts and has wings tattooed on the small of her back.

old shoe box
a photo of dad
with his secretary

Searching For Casablanca
Ray Rasmussen

"It's ... that mysterious city … where things are new and strange, the place where something interesting can happen to you ... Some part of Casablanca is the lovely dark-haired lady who beckons from the doorway.” The Night the Gods Smiled, Eric Wright

Bob and I were up early to begin a 2-week excursion to the Canyon Country of Southern Utah, some 1400 miles south. We've crossed the Canadian border into Idaho where severe winds are trying push our car off the road. Ahead, downed power lines block the highway and the highway patrol directs us into the small town of Duncan. Stuck here for the night, we walk the four blocks long main street looking for a pool table. In the first bar, a haze of cigarette smoke floats in the neon light. The patrons lean wearily on the bar, look as if they're barely eking out the little bit of life that hasn’t yet been kicked out of them. No dark-haired lady here.

smell of stale beer—
the slow turn
of ceiling fans

We find a once elegant hotel, The Carlisle, with a patched pool table. As we play, we discuss Wright's book and I recount a trip to Hull, Quebec with my friend Harvey who insisted on taking me to a strippers' bar. For a small fee, a young woman just skirting anorexia danced on our table. After an overlong period of watching her lifeless gyrations and feeling increasingly awkward at having her shaved pelvis circling directly over my beer, I told Harvey that I was ready to leave.

“Why so early?”

Because Casablanca is about a dark-haired femme fatale, not a skinny adolescent controlled by tattooed pimps in a room filled with depressed men. And, like Wright’s character, David, I’ve never wanted a woman that I would have to pay for.

Most often, my Casablancas come as a surprise. I once guided 10 hikers in a wild, untouched place in the Northern Rocky Mountains. One evening, I caught a glimpse of Jenny leaving the sweat lodge that we had built on the grassy banks of a stream. She had the pearly skin of a redhead and a blush of rust below her belly. The next day, she hiked with me and said: “I dreamed about you last night.”

“Yeah … good dreams?”

“Very good,” she said. “We were kissing in a meadow.”

I counted my blessings and entered Casablanca.

Bob’s voice breaks my reverie: "Quit daydreaming and shoot the bloody ball!"

college girls giggle
at a nearby table
another lost game

I thought it might be of interest to post a revision of this haibun.

Ray

Hell Hath No Fury

2 a.m. A crash and scream jolt me awake. I rush downstairs to find my daughter smashing her live-in boyfriend's TV set with a hammer. While I'm trying to figure out what led to this, she starts shattering his DVDs.

"You want to know why?" she screams. "I work and pay for the groceries, and he buys new clothes and DVDs." She grabs scissors and starts shredding his shirts. Next she pulls out a hacksaw and saws the toes off of his new shoes.

"I gave and gave and gave," she says, beginning to cry while hauling his belongings out the front door and dumping them on the lawn. She spews out a litany of complaints: he didn't do his share of the housework; he didn't pay his share of the bills; he wasn't motivated to get unstuck from his dead-end job; he had started smoking and doing drugs again; he was sulky and wouldn't talk to her; he never wanted to do anything.

Finally, she winds down and sits, sobbing: "I found out that he's been cheating on me for two years."

How does the man who cheated on her mother help her through this?

evening rain
missing especially
the small black kitten

Hell Hath No ... Hedgehogs, draft 1

Recently I've had move out two cats, one hedgehog, 4 mice, two large tanks of fish, and one boy-man.  That leaves 3 cats, one dog, 3 guinea pigs, two girl-women, one boy-man and me. Oh yeah, and a bunch of mosquitoes waiting to get in the door. 

The precipitating event was a boy-man being found out cheating on one of the girl-women. I was made aware of this at 2 a.m. by the sounds of screaming and things breaking. When I got down to the basement, thinking that I might have to rescue a daughter from a break-and-enter thug, I find her smashing her boy-man's TV set with a hammer. Smash! Smash! Smash! Next, each stroke of the hammer shatters a DVD. Crack! Crack! Crack! As I try to talk to her, she fetches up a large pair of scissors and goes at his new clothing ... cutting shirts, pants, sox into shreds.  Snip! Snip! Snip! "I work and pay for the groceries and he buys new clothes and DVDs and says he doesn't have enough money for the groceries" she screams. Then she pulls out a hacksaw [when did she come by such a good toolkit?] and saws the toes off of his new shoes.  "I gave and gave and gave," she screams to the soft sound of leather being sawed through.

I hug her to me, say, "I know that you're hurting, that you have a right to be angry, but this is no way to end a relationship."

She breaks away and starts hauling stuff out the front door and dumping it on the lawn.

"Stop," I beg. "I'm the one who's going to have to clean this up. You're punishing me, not him!"

Finally she winds down, sits, sobbing. She has a litany of complaints about this three year relationship. He didn't do his share of the housework, he didn't pay his share of the bills, he wasn't motivated to get unstuck from his dead-end job, he had started smoking and doing drugs again, he was sulky and wouldn't talk to her, he never wanted to do anything.

How does the man who cheated on her mother help her through this? 

evening rain
missing especially
the small black kitten

What can I say about my first trip in Amsterdam? Poor sex, many drugs, and some memories.  When I was in Holland, two friends and I visited by chance a small children's cemetery in the suburbs near Harlem.  Toys, faded photos, and gifts covered each burial place.  Written and painted messages lay among them.  I remember that it was a Sunday in November 2003, with a temperature of below five degrees: A real chilly morning

winter morning
a teddy bear nestled
on the gravestone