When two worlds collide at the intersection of Innocence and Depravity, something has to give. An improvised explosive device took his leg in Iraq, but medical miracles saved his life. Prosthetic leg and P.T.S.D., souvenirs from combat zone, along with a pile of debt, sapped his spirit and broke his will. That cold cannister of bad news brought back more than wife and child could handle, cost him job, family, and home. Forgotten by "friends," Purple Heart and Silver Star mean nothing when you are hungry and sleeping in cardboard box.
frosty street corner
passersby pass by in haste
leaving him alone
B. Haibun is a joining of prose and haiku. Originating in Japan, found as far back as the 10th century and made popular by Basho in the 17th century, it is autobiographic often taking the form of a travelogue. Modern haibun often draws its inspiration from everyday events. The form usually opens with prose which is short narrative. It sets the scene or describes a specific moment in objective detail. The haiku that follows relates to the core of the prose bringing emotional insight through an intensified image. There can be one or more prose-haiku combinations.
1. The prose describes in depth a scene or moment in a detached manner. It should be brief, concise and poetic. It is written in present tense and does not give away the moment of insight that should be revealed in the haiku that follows.
2. The haiku should not be in direct relationship with the prose but should bring a different slant, different images to heighten the emotion drawn from the defining moment of the prose as revealed in the haiku. It should not repeat words or phrases from the prose. The haiku should be on a different plane.
Bark Beetle
Lost for words, I sit at my computer attempting to coax Inspiration from memories, answers unspoken. My thoughts clamber and clash with no clear path. Fingers sit idle on the keys hesitant to type letters onto the page. One stroke at a time, a word, a line, an image slowly grows.
forest trail obscured
silence roars through dead pines
one brittle twig snaps
~ Judi Van Gorder
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