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So. I am approaching retirement age. Three and a half decades ago, I had plans. But plans change and the original ones are crumpled up papers filling the waste basket.

up in the air
untouchable clouds
until the rain falls

Several jobs, two careers, playing house, and a couple of hobbies. Not necessarily in that order. Life has a way of circling back. Sometimes. Perhaps I never wanted to finish the job anyway.

in the sock drawer
power of attorney
dust on the table

I look at the bin next to my desk where bills don't lay unpaid. Instead they float invisible in the cloud unless I have notifications activated. Yet, scanning the crumpled up papers, I see the remnants of unfinished poems. Time to take out the...

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He came back for just one day,
the little Negro boy from the landing,
whose sons and daughters were seen
driven back down into the desolate valley.
And he, too, had gone with them.

But just this one day, he is back,
a fully grown man,
walking with modern day me.
And my pale ancestors called him "contraband".

As we walked together on the sunlit path,
I was eager to show him that we eat at the same table, now.

The Negros Leagues are gone; we play together.
The schools are integrated; we learn together.
We, too, in America,
defend, work, govern, and shop together.

He smiles, tips his hat.
As we round a curve on the path, the Negro speaks.

He speaks of rivers
and I marveled at his history
that binds us together
though it was lost in
the shadows of discrimination.

I wanted to hold his hand,
to sing together the words of that mighty Negro spiritual,
"Free at last, thank God Almighty, we are free at last."

The muddy waters
had made the golden sunset of autumn seem so distant,
but the stream is running clearly now,
the poplars only bear their normal fruit.

We paused. As I pointed out a stone of hope,
I told him that there is a solid rock just ahead.

He says that he has already sung
while standing firmly on the solid rock.
The destination is farther than I think.

He tells me my stone has become a stumbling block,
Throw it into the river of righteousness.
let the cleansing waters shape it.

I did not understand,
but as I tossed the stone into the river,
the current seemed stronger than I thought.

As we rounded another curve in the sunlit path,
we stopped to rest in the shade of an old olive orchard.
The Negro shook my hand, thanked me for my time,
and we departed into different buildings.

It was Sunday.

Author Notes: The words and metaphors in the above poem come from famous others, most notably, Martin
Luther King, Jr.'s "sunlit path" and Langston Hughes' The Negro Speaks of Rivers.

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Oh my gosh, what was I thinking when I created this shelf. Leftovers? Leftover from what? Lol.

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Oh my gosh, what was I thinking when I created this shelf. Leftovers? Leftover from what? Lol.

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Insomnia

...or just procrastination. I must go to sleep. Success at work in a few hours depends on it. Or does it? I already bit my nails as far down as possible without going the extra millimeter which inflicts irritating pain while awaiting further growth. It's as if I don't want the day to end because it means I'll have to wake to another.

I already know what this one is like. I'm too old for unsolicited adventure.

the quiet
of pretending
the practice
of gratitude and
the hum of the A. C.

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Sailing alone around the room
like a stranger in a strange land
of mice and men,
I found that I am the cheese
in the valley of the dolls and...

that is the trouble with poetry.

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Young and bored, I suggested we climb a tree to traverse the roof of the cafeteria. We were often inside together, in line together, pushing our trays down the shiny metal path as we chose our items, but she would always turn down desert because she wanted to shed a few pounds. "Let me smell your brownie," she'd say. I always did. She said one-quarter of the flavor of food was inhaled. And I wanted to make her happy.

two peas in a pod
the sweet fragrance below
is gardenia bushes

Between group session and lunch, the time seems to stretch too long, so we are relaxing on the slope, legs bent, feet flat and planted, pointing down on the slant and watching people come and go from the entrance of the residential building which is opposite the entrance to the cafeteria. A nurse comes directly out from the lobby flanked by flowering shrubs, hands on her hips, and looks up and says, "Mary and Rachel, you get down from there right now!"

Surprised, I look at my friend with anxiety for getting us caught. She's grinning and pointing to the windows of the two story building across the parking lot. She always likes a good joke.

whirled peas
shelled and exposed
empty colander

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Eight years and one pandemic later, this is the second time I've hiked up the paved path of Tumamoc Hill. In this calendar decade. I stopped to watch the sunrise about halfway up. Shortly thereafter, I saw the two mule deer.

I'm resting at the top of the hill and overhearing way more than a snippet. The gossip of humans talking about others who "just gossip".

"We're supposed to be a church that unifies not divides," said the speaker who is "very dissappointed" in the body of christ.

Going downhill, I'm mindful of my feet placement with the focus on stability. I don't trust my knees as much as I used to.

buzzing to my right
birdsong to my left
I recall
the silence
of mule deer

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https://contemporaryhaibunonline.com/chohtmlarchive/pages154/Myers_Postmodern.html

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http://www.haibuntoday.com/ht131/TP_Myers_Up.html

Up in the Air (2019, March)

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Haibun Today: A Haibun & Tanka Prose Journal

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Wheat Pennies (2017, December)

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Mary P. Myers
Tucson, Arizona, USA

Wheat Pennies

Forty-six years ago, I had my sight on a cute boy in math class. He showed me a wheat penny and told me to always keep any I find. "They stopped making them in 1958," he said, "the year I was born." Nothing came of us, but every time I think of rare coins, I think of Eric Ross.

This morning, I search for information on wheat pennies and learn that a 1909 wheat penny is perfectly mounted as the calibration target on Curiosity, the rover currently exploring Mars. In her award-winning essay which named the rover, 12 year old, Clara Ma wrote, "Curiosity is an everlasting flame that burns in everyone's mind."

It takes less than five minutes to find him on Facebook. Under his "Who remembers. . . " post, I compliment him on his beautiful family. He reciprocates politely, but without saying whether he remembers me.

dusting off
an old coin collection
two cents missing

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Haibun Today: A Haibun & Tanka Prose Journal

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A Quarterly Journal Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & Owner
Ray Rasmussen, General Editor Volume 11, Number 4, December 2017

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Haibun Today: A Haibun & Tanka Prose Journal

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A Slap of the Windmill (2018, March)

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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & Owner
Ray Rasmussen, General Editor
Volume 12, Number 1, March 2018

Mary Myers
Tucson, Arizona, USA

A Slap of the Windmill

Hanging above my bed's headboard is a reproduction of Pablo Picasso's Don Quixote. As moonlight comes through my window, I kiss a man who is not my husband. A romance novel lands with a thud and the dog's ears perk up - just for the moment.

drifting off
the humidifier
runs out of steam

| contents page | next haibun |

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Haibun Today: A Haibun & Tanka Prose Journal

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A Quarterly Journal Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & Owner Ray Rasmussen, General Editor Volume 12, Number 1, March 2018 Mary Myers Tucson, Arizona, USA A Slap of the Windmill Hanging above my bed's headboard is a reproduction of Pablo Picasso's Don Quixote. As moonlight comes through my window, I kiss a man who is not my husband.

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Mary Myers

Just Another Beech

dull sunset
the russet hue
of my oak tree

I thought I had prepared. I never expected my winter to be so bleak. Some tell me to relish my autumn with the husband who acts like it's spring again. Peculiar, or perhaps even funny, since we hadn't met till summer and we spent our spring flings with others.

Last season, I didn't know any better, since my head was up in the clouds the whole time anyway. Except at night when, it seemed, the stars were shining a lot brighter than they actually were.

icy ball
Pluto's status;
it's complicated

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Contemporary Haibun Online: An Edited Journal of Haibun Prose and Haiku Poetry

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An online journal of contemporary haibun edited by Ken Jones, Jim Kacian and Bruce Ross featuring the best of modern English language haibun

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Haibun Today: A Haibun & Tanka Prose Journal

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Childhood Games (2017, March)

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Haibun Today: A Haibun & Tanka Prose Journal

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
A Quarterly Journal Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & Owner
Ray Rasmussen, General Editor
Volume 11, Number 1, March 2017

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Haibun Today: A Haibun & Tanka Prose Journal

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Dog-eared Journal (2016, December)

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Mary P. Myers
Tucson, Arizona, USA

Dog-eared Journal
my window contains peaks with a thousand years of ice

- Du Fu

The nearest dragonflies, this time of year, are the costumed ones dangling from my earlobes. I yank on another patch of weeds that reminds me that this is where I've settled for the last twenty-two years. Unlike Basho, my narrow road to the interior cuts primarily through the internet. And the rain doesn't slide down a banana leaf, but hail occasionally crashes through my skylight. I pull out another clump of encroachment and a skinny, inch-long insect appears on the stucco. Will it move on now that I've exposed its hiding place? Finished, I retreat inside.

still clinging -
a walking stick
or praying mantis

in my window
a pair of crystal earrings
and Tucson's peaks

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Haibun Today: A Haibun & Tanka Prose Journal

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Mary P. Myers Tucson, Arizona, USA Dog-eared Journal my window contains peaks with a thousand years of ice - Du Fu The nearest dragonflies, this time of year, are the costumed ones dangling from my earlobes. I yank on another patch of weeds that reminds me that this is where I've settled for the last twenty-two years.

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contemporary haibun Online: An Edited Journal of Haibun Prose and Haiku Poetry

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Measure Twice (2016, April)

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Mary P. Myers

Measure Twice

Examining the pencil marks on the doorjamb of the spare room, I can't make out the exact dates of the top marks. Both names are still legible. The children exceeded the highest lines, but I don't know why we stopped keeping track. I can still clearly see that date at about the median indicator.

It's the night before my father's funeral. Three of my siblings and I wax philosophic. A born-again Christian, two agnostics, and an atheist, we discuss the finer points of raising our children morally. My brother, with a grin, says "Well, let's see how they turn out."

The raising completed, I look around the room and wonder how to measure "turn out." By compassion, by philanthropy, the commission or omission of crimes, or by a happiness gradient? Or perhaps whether or not our progeny follow paths similar to what we have chosen. I look around the room one more time. Cut once. That's the rest of the Carpenter's Rule. I sweep the room.

cobwebs
in the closet
a box marked Goodwill

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contemporary haibun Online: An Edited Journal of Haibun Prose and Haiku Poetry

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Mary P. Myers Measure Twice Examining the pencil marks on the doorjamb of the spare room, I can't make out the exact dates of the top marks. Both names are still legible. The children exceeded the highest lines, but I don't know why we stopped keeping track.

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Haibun Today: A Haibun & Tanka Prose Journal

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An Odd Number of Role Models (2016, March)

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Mary Myers
Tucson, Arizona, USA

An Odd Number of Role Models
Two Saturdays in a row!

Trying to take charge of my health, I am hiking the paved path up Tumamoc Hill in Tucson. Twenty-one years in the Old Pueblo and this is only the second time I've walked this road.

It's a cardio-fest with dozens of empty cars lining the street adjacent to the hospital that is adjacent to the hill. Unlike the ritual ascent of Issa's snail that climbed Mt. Fuji . . . slowly, slowly . . . Tumamoc is conquered in avoidance. Shedding their metal shells, the walkers, hikers, and runners move with spiritual speeds intent on postponing a visit to the opposite side of the street.

I'm trying to beat last Saturday's time just so the rising sun isn't in my eyes on the first switchback up the 600 foot high, mile-and-a-half trek. I am looking for examples of fitness in the shapes, strides, and breaths of those around me. So many are a decade older than me, yet most seem two decades fitter.

Although I pace alone, differing agility levels dispatch snippets of conversations, some going up, some down: ". . . your week? Good. I saw . . ." ". . . then the resource teacher . . ." ". . .sit with 'em, call 'em companions and pay 'em minimum wage. Isn't that . . ." ". . . he said he wasn't there. That's crazy! Then, where was . . ." ". . . don't know what the hell I'm going to do. No one else . . ." And I also hear a couple of passing conversations in languages I don't understand.

I stop only as another hiker pauses to point out some wilder life nearby: five mule deer, making the journey with the rest of us.

the silent scent
of sagebrush
heaving lungs

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Haibun Today: A Haibun & Tanka Prose Journal

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Mary Myers Tucson, Arizona, USA An Odd Number of Role Models Two Saturdays in a row! Trying to take charge of my health, I am hiking the paved path up Tumamoc Hill in Tucson. Twenty-one years in the Old Pueblo and this is only the second time I've walked this road.

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Haibun Today: A Haibun & Tanka Prose Journal

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Gazing at Flowers (2016, December)

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Mary P. Myers
Tucson, Arizona, USA

Gazing at Flowers
A snail is climbing the wall behind the flower bed. I wonder if it has a goal in mind.

Issa's were such tenacious creatures, going bare-chested, taking on straw fences, and singing till the end.

Of the one slowly ascending Mt. Fuji, some say it was inch by inch. But what would a Japanese snail know of inches, let alone any unit of measure?

Are all sacred pilgrimages broken into increments?

The title of this haibun is from Issa's: In this world / we walk on the roof of hell / gazing at flowers

Other poems by Issa used to compose this haibun are from translations found at David G. Lanoue's Issa website:

in evening moonlight / going bare-chested . . . /snail

straw fence - / coming down skillfully / a snail

evening moon - / pond snails singing / in the kettle

Several translations of the slow ascent on My. Fuji may be found in the article, "Haiku by Issa".

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Haibun Today: A Haibun & Tanka Prose Journal

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Mary P. Myers Tucson, Arizona, USA Gazing at Flowers A snail is climbing the wall behind the flower bed. I wonder if it has a goal in mind. Issa's were such tenacious creatures, going bare-chested, taking on straw fences, and singing till the end. Of the one slowly ascending Mt.

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contemporary haibun Online: An Edited Journal of Haibun Prose and Haiku Poetry

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(2017, January)

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Mary Myers

The Importance of Titles

Emily didn't use them. Haiku can't have them. But I remember an assignment on choosing an effective title in my high school writing class. The young, handsome, conservatively long-haired teacher (it was the '70's) told us to write a short, true story and we'd be graded on how well our title worked. All the other girls had googly eyes for this guy whose name I cannot recall. I, however, did not live that fantasy and was just aiming for a high grade. Being a thoroughly honest person who did not yet grasp literary license, the writing of non-fiction was not in my repertoire. So I went with total fiction.

black ink
between faint blue lines
the writing on the wall

My story grew and grew into a gem. I polished it well. Unfortunately, the teacher couldn't pronounce the title, "Lost in the Okeefenokee Forest." But he liked the tale well enough that he was going to read it to the entire class. I was bursting with pride. Then he asked me, "Did this really happen?" I couldn't kill the mocking bird twice, so he didn't read my tour de force aloud.

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contemporary haibun Online: An Edited Journal of Haibun Prose and Haiku Poetry

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Mary Myers The Importance of Titles Emily didn't use them. Haiku can't have them. But I remember an assignment on choosing an effective title in my high school writing class. The young, handsome, conservatively long-haired teacher (it was the '70's) told us to write a short, true story and we'd be graded on how well our title worked.

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Plastic and Plutonium or Contemplating the Anthropocene through a Comet's Tale

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Plastic and Plutonium or Contemplating the Anthropocene through a Comet's Tale

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I saw a movie today. A lot of Earth-shaking thoughts were provoked along with rumbling and booms that were felt.

Unrelated, I have insomnia again. I'm lying under the cloudy sky and don't expect to see any more Perseid meteors. Related, I also don't expect to see nitrogen nuclei fusing above me setting the atmosphere ablaze.

when the can opens
those little bubbles
on my lips

Not worms. But I recall the rainy morning in Georgia when I was in 5th grade at St. Thomas More. On rainy mornings there were worms on the sidewalk. I remember the goosebumps and ebeejeebies I'd feel in the core of my being at the thought of stepping on them. Before class starts, on the playground, Marianne said, "I have a surprise for you. Close your eyes and hold out your hands." I did. She place cold cooked spaghetti in my hands. I screamed. She laughed. The 'worms' were flung. All in a split second.

torrential downpour
no sheets on the line
to bring in

My outdoor lounge chair is a faded blue, no longer navy, but still works fine. I'll not be going to the other movie. No pink for me in this dull reality. All the brouhaha holds no appeal. Not even with buttered popcorn and blonde beer in a clear plastic cup.