dappled sunlight men talk of men they knew
w. f. owen
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Friday, May 30, 2008
seeds
building clouds
the pregnant mail carrier
delivers my seeds
spring thunder
slight cracks in the
swollen tree buds
planting seeds
my finger
just deep enough
classic rock radio:
"sowing the seeds
of love"
college newspaper
an ad for
ovum donors
lingering light
pulling flesh
from a cling peach
w. f. owen
(Modern Haiku, Autumn 2005, p. 82)
the pregnant mail carrier
delivers my seeds
spring thunder
slight cracks in the
swollen tree buds
planting seeds
my finger
just deep enough
classic rock radio:
"sowing the seeds
of love"
college newspaper
an ad for
ovum donors
lingering light
pulling flesh
from a cling peach
w. f. owen
(Modern Haiku, Autumn 2005, p. 82)
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Sunday, May 25, 2008
ring
WALKING GUARD DUTY around a Quonset hut of ammunition on the Marine Corps Air Station, Oahu, my high school ring tapping the barrel of a loaded M-14 rifle. Possible racial and anti-war riots threaten the base. Tropical stars trigger memories. The major in boot camp warned me that this ring would snag and pull my finger off when jumping from a helicopter in Nam. Instead of going to West Pac, I got stuck driving a "six-by" truck in California until boredom spurred a transfer request, which could have led to the Tet Offensive, not here to paradise. First week on the Rock, the sunburn from bodysurfing, tasting poi (the glue-like brown paste made from taro), hearing stories on the base from Marines, and on liberty in Waikiki from soldiers and sailors on R & R, about rumors of Russian tanks crossing the DMZ, moments of unspeakable terror beside hours of boredom. Alcohol-induced loose tongues, like the kid in the bar so juiced he removed the prosthetic mask covering what was left of his face from falling on a grenade. He stuck the plastic façade on someone's arm and watched him flick it off like some dead alien in a sci-fi film. A faint steel guitar playing Hawaiian music wafts through swaying palms just ahead of the approaching change of guard. “Halt, who goes there?”
About a year later, while SCUBA diving off the base near an old firing range, I lose my senior ring.
combing
the military beach
a crab with one claw
w. f. owen
(small events: haibun by w. f. owen,
Red Moon Press, 2007, p. 20)
WALKING GUARD DUTY around a Quonset hut of ammunition on the Marine Corps Air Station, Oahu, my high school ring tapping the barrel of a loaded M-14 rifle. Possible racial and anti-war riots threaten the base. Tropical stars trigger memories. The major in boot camp warned me that this ring would snag and pull my finger off when jumping from a helicopter in Nam. Instead of going to West Pac, I got stuck driving a "six-by" truck in California until boredom spurred a transfer request, which could have led to the Tet Offensive, not here to paradise. First week on the Rock, the sunburn from bodysurfing, tasting poi (the glue-like brown paste made from taro), hearing stories on the base from Marines, and on liberty in Waikiki from soldiers and sailors on R & R, about rumors of Russian tanks crossing the DMZ, moments of unspeakable terror beside hours of boredom. Alcohol-induced loose tongues, like the kid in the bar so juiced he removed the prosthetic mask covering what was left of his face from falling on a grenade. He stuck the plastic façade on someone's arm and watched him flick it off like some dead alien in a sci-fi film. A faint steel guitar playing Hawaiian music wafts through swaying palms just ahead of the approaching change of guard. “Halt, who goes there?”
About a year later, while SCUBA diving off the base near an old firing range, I lose my senior ring.
combing
the military beach
a crab with one claw
w. f. owen
(small events: haibun by w. f. owen,
Red Moon Press, 2007, p. 20)
Saturday, May 24, 2008
dog tags
A FRIEND TELLS ME that his brother’s dog tags were among hundreds found on a recent trip to Vietnam by two Florida businessmen. His brother was listed MIA after his helicopter was shot down during the 1968 Tet Offensive. Stamped into the metal tags are his name, serial number and blood type. The businessmen bought over 600 of the tags in the back alley shops of Ho Chi Minh City. Some cost just a few pennies.
his brother’s dog tags
found after thirty years
washing off foreign soil
w. f. owen
(small events: haibun by w. f. owen,
Red Moon Press, 2007, p. 39)
A FRIEND TELLS ME that his brother’s dog tags were among hundreds found on a recent trip to Vietnam by two Florida businessmen. His brother was listed MIA after his helicopter was shot down during the 1968 Tet Offensive. Stamped into the metal tags are his name, serial number and blood type. The businessmen bought over 600 of the tags in the back alley shops of Ho Chi Minh City. Some cost just a few pennies.
his brother’s dog tags
found after thirty years
washing off foreign soil
w. f. owen
(small events: haibun by w. f. owen,
Red Moon Press, 2007, p. 39)
Friday, May 23, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Friday, May 16, 2008
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Monday, May 12, 2008
the taste of blood
The last dog we had growing up, a boxer named Bullet,
developed the habit of jumping up and laying his paws
on the chest of anyone who approached. Licking and
slobbering, he only wanted to play, but would knock over
small children, so we were forced to take him to live in the
rural town of my grandparents. There was plenty of open space.
Rabbits and possums to hunt. When he needed to be chained,
he had the shade of the plum trees. On our visits we would throw
the green canning plums for him to chase. He liked to chase. He
also went after the neighbor’s chickens sometimes and killed a few.
“Once they get the taste of blood, you might as well shoot ’em,”
the man explained.
And one day, that’s just what he did.
first fist fight
the taste of blood
in my mouth
(p. 5, small events: haibun by w. f. owen,
Red Moon Press, 2007)
This is one of fifty haibun from my book.
Haibun are prose elements combined with haiku.
There is an interplay of the two in which a surplus
of meaning occurs. It offers an expansion of creativity
in a sense. Some haiku have more of a "story" to them
than the brief lines allow. From time to time
I will place more haibun here.
The last dog we had growing up, a boxer named Bullet,
developed the habit of jumping up and laying his paws
on the chest of anyone who approached. Licking and
slobbering, he only wanted to play, but would knock over
small children, so we were forced to take him to live in the
rural town of my grandparents. There was plenty of open space.
Rabbits and possums to hunt. When he needed to be chained,
he had the shade of the plum trees. On our visits we would throw
the green canning plums for him to chase. He liked to chase. He
also went after the neighbor’s chickens sometimes and killed a few.
“Once they get the taste of blood, you might as well shoot ’em,”
the man explained.
And one day, that’s just what he did.
first fist fight
the taste of blood
in my mouth
(p. 5, small events: haibun by w. f. owen,
Red Moon Press, 2007)
This is one of fifty haibun from my book.
Haibun are prose elements combined with haiku.
There is an interplay of the two in which a surplus
of meaning occurs. It offers an expansion of creativity
in a sense. Some haiku have more of a "story" to them
than the brief lines allow. From time to time
I will place more haibun here.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Friday, May 9, 2008
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Monday, May 5, 2008
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Friday, May 2, 2008
Thursday, May 1, 2008
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