Featuring Authors of Haibun, Tanka Prose, Haiga, and Related Forms
Richard Grahn
Welcome! Below you’ll find examples of my haibun, tanka prose, haiga, music, photography, and more. I became familiar with the poetic forms while seriously ill in 2016. I credit my experience in writing them for aiding in my recovery. Thank you for stopping by. I hope you will also find these words to be healing and inspirational. They certainly are for me.
You can learn more about my diverse interests by visiting myPoet’s Hub page here on Drifting Sands.
The poet eases into his favorite chair, fingers waiting eagerly for a puff of imagination to settle onto the keys. One-by-one, each digit moves and slowly a dance ensues.
He searches for his partner. The muse alights in his mind. They step out onto the page and begin to twirl.
one
the storybook begins with “once upon a time” from there we’re left to find a way to weave our dreams between the lines
two
many yesterdays ago there lived a pair on a hill he walked each day to the spring to fetch her a cup of water
three
milady, your hands fit into mine as stars fit into the sky . . . if this is all a dream then please try not to wake me
a poor harvest of winter wheat . . . still, I grind the grain on the old stone wheel then sow the fields again
It’s morning. Nails protrude through loose floorboards, throw rugs lie threadbare. Like ghosts, curtains hang over shuttered windows. A steady drip from the kitchen faucet echoes down the hall. The closet door is off its hinges.
The other side of the bed is empty, just as it’s been every morning for the past three years. But I’ve had enough. I get up, throw open the window, pick up my hammer, and start pounding the floor.
along the byway to adulthood an apple tree bloomed . . . now I pick its fruit with weathered hands
I’m in rows of corn, running my fingers through the rustling leaves, the scent of earth and pollen in the air. They grow so quickly, these sturdy stalks, taller than my head. Following the contours of the hills, the trail bending and twisting, I discover that the time just before harvest is a pretty good time to get lost.
I burrow into the field, its cocoon wrapping around me until the rest of the world fades away. Every so often a red-winged blackbird stops by to keep me company as we share the last days of summer.
Some people look at a cornfield and see just a field. I see a haven, ripe with adventure and silky ears to whisper to. Turn left at the ladybug and follow the sun; a kid knows the very best places to hide. The secrets of the maize envelope me. I close my eyes and immerse myself in the roots and tassels, pausing along the winding path laid out for me.
following the footsteps of a wandering child the poet finds a verse scribbled in the soil
It’s hard to believe you’re not here. Seems like yesterday we were laughing at stupid jokes, not taking life too seriously. I found an old picture of you in a box and recalled something you used to say: You’ll always have what’s in your head. Now the trail we blazed through our mountains leads me back to your laughter.
a glissando of chirps from the land of dreams casting spells . . . as bones rattle the forest whispers I rise again a simple reminder to cradle each moment to listen before it’s gone
I’ve taken the highway, that path that leads from here to there, from anywhere to everywhere it seems. Over mountains and valleys, across rivers and streams, I’ve hitched my way through cities and deserts, from ocean to ocean, back home and away again. I’ve stood by the road in the pouring rain, cars rolling by with somewhere to go. Each time I look in a rear-view mirror, mile markers passing by, my thoughts drift back to where I started, when time was on my side.
There is always somewhere to go, something on my mind, even if that something is nothing more than venturing into the unknown. I’ve walked away from pain and into the arms of love, each time the load a little bit larger, the wind a little bit stronger. It seems there is no end in sight; the magic mountains are just out of reach. So, I buy a map at a local gas station, open it up, and to my delight, find it crisscrossed with roads.
a car radio crackles . . . the soles of my shoes with a mind of their own
How have you been? I can’t remember it ever being so quiet around here. The pots and pans don’t clang around in the kitchen as much as they used to and the washing machine is off on a fritz. I do miss our repartee. Oh, what I would pay to hear you stab at me just one more time. A good parry is what I need right now. Nothing too heavy though. You know how we used to argue.
Anyway, here’s a little poem I wrote a rainy day or two ago. I hope you like it.
memories of us… wind chimes in a storm
Do stay in touch. I’ve never been too good with words and I know you must be busy so I’ll just say goodbye for now. Hope you’re doing well.
Sincerely,
Me
P.S. just a reminder…you left your footprints in the garden
Sam adjusts his tie and steps off the porch, the light blue feather tucked in his hatband—a gift from a friend. The sidewalk is alive with shoes today. His cane taps along as he sets off to work.
Miranda meets him at the corner, clutching her pink handbag. He greets her with a smile. They chit-chat over old times as they walk together to his office. They discuss plans for dinner and agree to meet after work. He goes inside.
She continues two more blocks to the school crossing, where the guard waves her across with a batch of children. She smiles at the man and offers a thank you.
The man holds up his sign until all are all safely across. Stepping to the curb, he explains to one girl how he had to cross the street all by himself when he was young. The story makes her happy that he is there.
The girl heads into school and her classroom. The teacher calls her name and she responds with a cheerful chirp, “I’m here.” The teacher smiles and puts a gold star in the roster next to her name.
After school lets out, the teacher is busy grading the day’s assignments when the principal stops by. “I had a wonderful day with the class,” she tells him.
He smiles, leaves her to her papers and heads out to the parking lot where he encounters a boy on a bike. The boy is ecstatic about his booming home run at baseball practice this afternoon. The principal gives him a high-five and the boy whizzes off.
Waiting at the light, the boy watches a couple cross the street, he with a cane, she with a pink purse tucked under her arm. The man tips his hat and the boy smiles back, catching a glimpse of what was once his feather.
quiet moon… thank you for taking the time to shine
The wooden stairs are steep, only about ten of them but steep. At the foot is Grandma’s canning pantry complete with carefully sealed Mason jars filled with applesauce, jams, jellies, watermelon pickles, and other preserves. Mostly it’s fruit we picked. I like it when Grandma chooses me to fetch something from the shelves.
To the left is Grandpa’s workbench with an assortment of tools including a bench-grinder, a couple of rock tumblers, and, my favorite, a handheld black light. We use it to view the fluorescent stones and minerals in his rock collection gathered on many trips across North America. Fluorite, calcite, and hyalite all dazzle in its subtle glow. Grandpa weaves stories of adventure in with his descriptions of the rocks.
Behind us is Grandma’s hand-cranked, wringer washing machine; so fancy. I enjoy wringing out the pants and shirts when the wash is finished. Lines hang from the ceiling near the furnace toward the back of the room. She tells me I’m an expert with clothespins.
These days I find myself spending more time in the basement. It’s quality time for me, springtime in my mind.
old songs playing on the radio . . . a pear blossom opens
Wrapped around your finger, like a towel around an agitator. Lost my glasses in the dishwasher looking for you. The blow-dryer went out with a bang and now my hair has powder burns. The dining room light is out and I can’t see what I am eating. Tastes like sawdust anyway.
belching and smoking with a purpose… chimney sweep
The traffic light said GO; smash! The insurance company raised my rates to see if I bleed. All this from a fortune-teller who asked me how I was going to get home. Found my toupee in the lint trap. You never liked it anyway. If only I could borrow enough money to live like a lottery winner, there would be more cheese in the fridge. Our dirty laundry is on the clothesline. When will the cows come home? All I know is if you add detergent, and put quarters in the slot, I’ll spin like a top with bubbles until the laundry mat is closed.
I’m floating in an uncharted region of my mind. There are no faces in the portraits on these walls. Hitchhiked here from the medulla oblongata. Found myself sloshing it up at the pituitary gland. Provisioned further at the hippocampus and hypothalamus before setting off on foot to chase down a neuron, was told it ventured this way from nowhere, destroyed everything. My feet are gone. Where I’m going, I’m gone. But I’ve been there before. Not going again.
poems on padded walls– the orderly barks, Stop! but I refuse to surrender the crayon
