Hi Friends,
The Wooden Chair was the first haibun I had written. This was published in Contemporary Haibun Online’s July issue, 2013, Vol 9. Please find below.
My Wooden Chair
I stroll restlessly in my new house as trees outside are being chopped for construction. Lifeless new buildings are sprouting in the neighbourhood. I wonder mildly about deforestation as I lean back in my chair.
my wooden chair screeches–
memories of a
felled tree
I stood in the corner
of my tiny room,
scared of the light
that followed me
wherever I went.
I pulled my curtains,
hiding inside, holding
on to darkness, taking
comfort in misery
when sunlight crept in
through the tiny opening
in my curtains.
Terrified of the light,
I buried my face in
my hands.
Sunlight colored my fingertips,
pricking my eyelids.
I felt the light
with closed eyes,
flooded by its warmth,
its positivity and grandeur.
No longer fearful,
I shed the comfort of darkness
and stepped on
the path of light.
Cold cut through her skin,
seeped into her bones,
and clutched her shivering heart
as its icy grip spread
all over her body.
Stacked logs on the fireplace
could not warm her frosty breath
and heavy blankets failed
to comfort her chilled body.
Then it happened.
A tiny feeble hand
touched her heart
and blood gushed
into her body, filling
her with maternal warmth.
Her cold ears melted
in the soft babble
of cooing noises.
Her eyes trembled open
to soak in the warmth
of the tiny stranger and
she forced herself up
with outstretched arms.
Restless butterfly
indefinite search
for destination unknown
The old lady sits in the corner of a
park bench, overlooking
her nursing home.
She laughs if spoken to,
her toothless smile as
pure as that of a baby,
a testimony to her
lost memories.
She does not remember
her husband with whom
she shared 40 years of pain nor
does she remember her children
to whom she gave 30 years of
her health. She fails to recall
her father who was never there.
She has a fleeting memory
of a young woman who birthed her,
fed and sang to her,
cried and laughed with her
and has now become a picture
in her ancient house,
never growing old.
The old lady sobs softly
disturbed by vague thoughts of
her mother, alarming her caregivers.
Then she is back to senile
laughing self as those around her
sigh in relief.
dark lane
a ghost in every breath
I take
The west wind howls in the woods, uprooting plants, tossing their nuts, and bending powerful trees. The branches nod to the teasing wind as nesting songbirds hold tight until the wind sails away.
The west wind now pauses by the pink splendor of the woods. Mesmerized, it calms into a breeze and crawls over each stem.
As the pink flowers dance in delight, the breeze finds its way to a corner, resting on an undiscovered flower. The breeze melts into the flower, enchanted by its texture and fragrance.
west wind halts
to trace each pattern
in a pecan leaf
I tried to move my ravaged limbs
when I heard arms and legs
thrashing around
in the next ward.
I rasped, trying to breathe
as incoherent screams
from the neighborhood
gave voice to my pain.
Silence found me, at last,
and I was wrapped, but
my soul wandered,
half-desolate and half-ecstatic.
Then I opened
my new eyes
to see a vague form
as motherly cooing
caressed my ears.
