The Gazeebo

A Poet's Place

The Gazeebo: My First Haibun


Obviously, I haven’t posted in a little while, but just wanted to provide a very quick update.  School is almost out and finals (including essays, a portfolio, and the like) are beginning to take up my time.  Also, I got a promotion out to the Fuel Station here at Safeway back in March, just before spring break, so that was pretty cool – another reason I haven’t been on.. been working a lot.  Also, one final thing – I will be reviving the “To Victory!” category of blog posts within the next week or so.  I got a punching bag so I’ve been working out like crazy and losing weight (you will find out more, if you are interested).

Anyway, here’s the poem.  When I was at the ASU Writer’s Conference back in February, I had the opportunity and pleasure to take a few ‘classes’ with a few fellow writers.  One of the teachers at the conference was a man by the name of Charles (Charlie) Jensen.  He does prose poetry and he held two classes on that subject – most definitely my favorite classes during that entire weekend 🙂  Anyway, the second class he did was specifically on the Haibun – when you write a prose poem that ends with a haiku.  The prompt was for us to write about a childhood home.. I wrote about a sort of home away from home of mine and my family’s.  So, here it is.

Summer Rain

The wind blows through, as the thunder cracks above.  It is a summer storm in Northern Arizona.  Lightning paints pictures across the dark sky, full blinding yellow and white.  You sit inside, playing a game with your family.  Your grandma just scored 30 points, but you know it’s not as much as your mom’s 70.  She played all 7.  Outside, you hear grumbling, the rain playing the tin roof as a snare.  Flash!  The dark room lights in seconds, for seconds.  The rumbling of cannons of some war between the gods can be heard, the cracks of whips on horses’ backs, the bang of a Colt Navy behind your ear.  But you just smile as the orchestra continues, pipes ringing, constant drumming, chimes jingling on the porch.  Your father walks in the room, bringing your sister with him.  She woke from a nap crying, but she now stands on the linoleum floor of the kitchen, holding his hand.  Her face red, tears all dry.  She clutches to her chest, a bear – pink.  It will be the only pink she ever has.

A past long since gone

But you remember the bang

Sound of summer rain.

© Jesse McDowell Lungren



May 3, 2012 - Posted by | Your Lungren Originals | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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