In Mazes, Create

The pain-shroud spilled over her all, day and night… blackening her dreams, drowning her living in the bitter-salt that had to be wept, if cleansing was to be had. Hurt cries scarred her heart’s skin, blemished the veil that separated her mind’s eye from the world, and named her existence eternally dark. “I’m walled in a door-less pit that overflows with black, black, pitch-black stagnation that’s penumbra over my Self,” she said. “No flesh, no bone, no soul could survive this. How could I!”

black flowers
in mazes, create—
ink treasure

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Process Note: I’ve linked this poem to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads’ “Micro Poetry” prompt. Since the word “Micro” seemed to be glaring at the prose section of my poem, I was only going to link the haiku bit of this haibun. Then I got curious about how one might count the lines that compose a haibun (my poetry forms knowledge is rather limited). I read this article on Haibun Today, and it shed little light onto my line division issue. So I visited the word jungle (Wikipedia) and found this wee bit: “Prose poetry is poetry without line breaks in accordance to paragraph structure as opposed to stanza.”

Out of deliciously selfish convenience (I really wanted to share the haibun *cough*), I interpreted the quote to mean that there aren’t any real line breaks in the paragraphs of prose poetry. If this is true (and I have no idea if it is), then “In Mazes, Create” contains only four lines. Micro and the Muse are aiming some seriously suspicious looks my way; and somehow, I doubt that I can fault them for it. What do you think, my Wicked Luvs?

In Mazes, Createblacked out from Johanna Basford’s
Secret Garden: an Inky Treasure Hunt and Coloring Book

A Spirited Soul

If I were 9-years-old, and living in the Dominican Republic, and my grandmother’s cackles were still bettering the world of the breathing… Then today, my face would be painted gray with ashes and my eyes encircled black with coal, until I resembled a calavera (or skull). We would dress my grandmother’s cross in brightly colored crêpe paper; we would cook sweet beans; and we would tell forever-living tales of our dead. The celebration would be nameless, but every heart and soul—young and old—would know what today was called.

But I’m 38-years-young and living in New York City. So my family and I will spend the day cooking… Then tonight, we’ll carve pumpkins, share a yummy meal, and tell tales of our dead. My cyber-home always partakes in the partying, so I’ve crafted a Halloween(y) haibun for you:

“A Spirited Soul”

I visit the place nearly never. It’s too dark… too many bones… too much death for a spirited soul; except on the day before All Hallows… when with pumpkin chili, rice, rum, Bachata music and belly laughs, my blood celebrates my life.

bare branches rustle
food and song in the graveyard—
to honor the dead.

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Inspired by “The Dead”, winner of From Blackout Poem Bit to Flash Fiction or Full-Length Poetry, 4; and linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Flash 55.

If you celebrate this witchy holiday, then Happiest Halloween, All Hallows’ Eve, Dia de los muertos, Samhain… and if October 31st holds little or no meaning for you, then Happiest Day.

A Spirited Soul